AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

MEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •     CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

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MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Lm. 

TORONTO 


AN 

INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 


BY 
JAY  B.  HUBBELL,  PH.D. 

AND 
JOHN  O.  BEATY,  Pn.D. 

PROFESSORS    OF   ENGLISH    IN    SOUTHERN1 
METHODIST   UNIVERSITY 


Sot* 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1924 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotypcd.     Published  September,  1922.     Reprinted 
January,  July,  1923. 


PR 


To 
W.  P.  TRENT 

AND 

A.  H.  THORNDIKE 


PREFACE 

An  Introduction  to  Poetry  is  intended  for  the  college 
freshman  or  sophomore  as  well  as  for  the  general  reader. 
Its  chief  aims  are  two:  first,  to  offer  in  a  natural  and 
interesting  manner  the  technical  apparatus,  the  criticism, 
and  the  examples  needed  for  a  good  elementary  knowledge 
of  English  poetry;  second,  to  offer  a  convenient  oppor- 
tunity for  a  comparison  of  the  new  and  the  older  English 
and  American  poets. 

The  twelve  chapters  approach  poetry  from  various 
angles — type,  meter,  subject,  and  period.  Each  chapter 
includes  enough  poems  to  illustrate  well  the  points 
brought  out  in  the  text.  The  explanations  of  poetic  tech- 
nique are,  we  believe,  sufficiently  full,  and  are  so  intro- 
duced as  to  be  neither  difficult  nor  tedious.  General 
criticism  is  provided  at  appropriate  places,  and  many 
points  of  possible  difficulty  or  exceptional  interest  are 
explained  not  in  foot-notes,  but  in  the  text.  We  have 
arranged  poems  in  such  groups  that  the  reader  is  able  to 
criticize  for  himself;  and  we  have,  as  far  as  possible, 
made  the  transition  from  poem  to  poem  easy  and 
continuous.  We  have  begun  with  the  song  because  it  is 
a  primitive  and  universally  understood  type  of  poem.  If 
we  have  given  too  generous  space  to  the  Old  French 
forms,  light  verse,  or  free  verse,  we  have  done  so  on  the 
grounds  either  of  special  difficulty  or  of  unusual  interest 
at  the  present  time. 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

We  have,  in  the  second  place,  invited  an  almost  con- 
stant comparison  between  the  older  and  the  contemporary 
poets.  In  this  poetic  age,  the  touchstone  of  the  old  is 
the  best  criterion  for  judging  the  new.  Moreover — 
since  new  writers  arise  while  the  span  of  life  continues 
essentially  the  same — it  is  necessary  that  each  generation 
should  discard  some  of  the  verse  approved  by  its  prede- 
cessors as  "classic."  Our  omission  of  popular  older 
poems  is,  nevertheless,  due  also  in  large  part  to  the  con- 
straining limitations  of  an  anthology  of  the  inductive 
type.  Still,  if  the  proportion  of  contemporary  verse 
seems  too  great,  one  should  remember  that  contempo- 
raneity is  second  only  to  absolute  value  in  determining 
the  appeal  of  a  work  of  art.  A  poem  can  to  no  future 
generation  mean  as  much  as  to  the  sympathetic  con- 
temporaries of  its  author. 

It  should  be  reiterated  here  that  the  several  hundred 
poems  included  in  this  work  are  not  offered  as  the  several 
hundred  greatest  poems  in  the  English  language.  Con- 
siderations  of  space,  of  points  to  be  illustrated,  of  diffi- 
culties of  structure  have  compelled  us  to  omit  some  poems 
that  we  should  have  liked  to  use.  We  believe,  however, 
that  a  reader  of  catholic  taste  will  find  little  to  object  to 
in  the  selections.  We  have  met  with  such  willing  co- 
operation from  the  poets  and  publishers  who  own  the 
copyrights  of  the  included  contemporary  selections  that 
the  list  of  poems  originally  chosen  has  had  to  be  modified 
in  less  than  a  dozen  cases.  The  necessary  omissions  have 
nevertheless  been,  we  regret  to  say,  some  of  the  greatest 
of  recent  poems.  To  mention  but  one  instance,  Mr.  John 
Masefield,  although  generously  granting  our  other  re- 


PREFACE  ix 

quests,   declined   to   authorize   the   use   of   his   "August, 
1914." 

The  plan  of  An  Introduction  to  Poetry  was  conceived 
by  Mr.  Beaty.  At  first  it  was  intended  that  each  author 
should  write  six  chapters,  but  circumstances  prevented 
Mr.  Beaty  from  writing  more  than  four — Chapters  III, 
IV,  VII,  and  VIII.  The  other  eight  are  by  Mr.  Hubbell. 
The  entire  book  has,  however,  been  revised  by  both 
authors,  and  each  assumes  full  responsibility  for  all 
selections,  critical  comments,  and  errors. 

We  owe  a  general  obligation  to  many  of  the  works 
listed  in  the  Bibliography  and  to  the  lectures  of  our 
former  teachers — especially  those  of  Columbia  University. 
To  our  colleagues,  Professors  John  H.  McGinnis  and 
Marie  D.  Hemke,  of  the  English  Department  of  Southern 
Methodist  University,  we  are  indebted  for  valuable  criti- 
cism. Miss  Hemke  has  read  the  entire  manuscript,  much 
of  it  more  than  once,  and  has  assisted  us  in  many  other 
ways.  To  Mrs.  Beaty  and  Mrs.  Hubbell  we  are  deeply 
indebted  for  criticism  and  helpful  suggestions,  and,  in 
the  case  of  Mrs.  Beaty,  for  very  material  assistance  in 
preparing  the  manuscript  for  the  press. 

J.  B.  H. 
J.  O.  B. 

Southern  Methodist  University, 
Dallas,  Texas, 
July  27,  1922a 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  generous  cooperation  of  poets  and  publishers  has 
made  possible  the  inclusion  of  many  poems  which  are 
still  in  copyright.  We  wish  to  express  our  grateful  obli- 
gation to  those  poets  who  have  added  their  permission 
to  that  of  their  publishers :  Miss  Amy  Lowell,  Mrs. 
Josephine  Preston  Peabody  Marks,  and  Messrs.  John 
Gould  Fletcher,  Robert  Frost,  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson, 
Richard  Le  Gallienne,  Haniel  Long,  Christopher  Morley, 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  Carl  Sandburg,  Siegfried 
Sassoon,  and  John  Hall  Wheelock.  To  the  following 
publishers  and  other  persons  we  are  indebted  for  the  use 
of  poems  still  in  copyright: 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY— 

For  William  Cullen  Bryant's  "To  a  Waterfowl,"  "The 
Death  of  Lincoln,"  "The  Poet/'  and  parts  of  "Thanatop- 
sis"  and  "The  Prairies" ;  and  for  Edmund  Gosse's  "Ses- 
tina  to  F.  H." 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY— 

For  Austin  Dobson's  "The  Prodigals/'  "In  After  Days/' 
"The  Wanderer/'  "Vitas  Hinnuleo/'  "A  Kiss,"  "When 
I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose,"  "Jocosa  Lyra,"  "A  Ballad  of 
Heroes,"  and  a  selection  from  "Ars  Victrix." 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY— 
For  Joyce  Kilmer's  "Trees." 
ri 


xii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  AND  COMPANY— 

For  Richard  Le  Gallienne's  "The  Eternal  Way";  for 
Rudyard  Kipling's  "For  All  We  Have  and  Are,"  "The 
White  Man's  Burden/'  "Recessional,"  "The  King," 
"Danny  Deever,"  and  "The  Gipsy  Trail" ;  for  Chris- 
topher Morley's  "To  a  Post-Office  Inkwell" ;  and  for 
Walt  Whitman's  "To  a  Certain  Civilian,"  "When  I  Heard 
the  Learn'd  Astronomer,"  "As  Toilsome  I  Wander'd  Vir- 
ginia's Woods,"  "Darest  Thou  Now,  O  Soul,"  "O  Cap- 
tain! my  Captain!",  "To  a  Locomotive  in  Winter,"  and 
"To  Old  Age." 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY— 

For  a  selection  from  Francis  Ledwidge's  "Soliloquy." 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY- 

For  Willard  Wattles's  "Creeds"  and  Siegfried's  Sassoon's 
"Song-books  of  the  War." 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY— 

For  Carl  Sandburg's  "A.  E.  F.";  John  Gould  Fletcher's 
"Exit"  and  "Blake" ;  and  for  Louis  Untermeyer's  "Ques- 
tioning Lydia." 

HARPER  AND  BROTHERS— 

For  Swinburne's  "The  Garden  of  Proserpine,"  "A  For- 
saken Garden,"  and  "A  Baby's  Feet." 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY- 

For  Robert  Frost's  "Mending  Wall"  and  "The  Tuft  of 
Flowers" ;  and  for  Carl  Sandburg's  "Chicago"  and  "A 
Fence." 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY— 

For  Emerson's  "The  Snow-Storm,"  "Concord  Hymn," 
and  "This  Shining  Moment";  for  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes's  "The  Last  Leaf"  and  a  stanza  from  "The 
Chambered  Nautilus";  for  Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow's "Hymn  to  the  Night,"  two  sonnets  on  Dante, 
and  his  translations  of  Goethe's  "Wanderer's  Night- 
songs";  for  James  Russell  Lowell's  "For  an  Autograph" 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xiii 

and  a  portion  of  the  "Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Com- 
memoration"; for  John  Greenleaf  Whittier's  "Skipper 
Ireson's  Ride,"  "Telling  the  Bees/'  and  a  selection  from 
"Snow-Bound";  for  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich's  "Palabras 
Carinosas" ;  for  Laurence  Binyon's  "For  the  Fallen"; 
for  "H.  D.'s"  "Oread";  for  Bret  Harte's  "Her  Letter" 
and  "Mrs.  Judge  Jenkins";  for  Josephine  Preston  Pea- 
body's  "  'Vanity,  Saith  the  Preacher'  " ;  for  Clinton  Scol- 
lard's  "In  the  Sultan's  Garden";  for  John  Godfrey 
Saxe's  "Woman's  Will";  and  for  Odell  Shepard's  "Cer- 
tain American  Poets." 

MR.  JULIAN  R.  HOVEY— 

For  Richard  Hovey's  "Unmanifest  Destiny." 

JOHNSON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  Richmond,  Vir- 
ginia— 
For  Henry  Timrod's  "At  Magnolia  Cemetery." 

MR.  MITCHELL  KENNERLEY- 

For  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay's  "Elegy";  for  an  extract 
from  Witter  Bynner's  "The  New  World." 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY- 

For  Rupert  Brooke's  "The  Soldier";  for  Richard  Le 
Gallienne's  "The  Eternal  Way";  and  for  William  Wat- 
son's "Written  in  Mr.  Sidney  Lee's  Life  of  Shake- 
speare," "To  Christina  Rossetti,"  "His  Friends  He 
Loved,"  and  "For  Metaphors  of  Man." 

LITTLE,  BROWN  AND  COMPANY- 

For  Emily  Dickinson's  "A  Book"  and  "This  Quiet 
Dust";  for  Lord  Dunsany's  "The  Worm  and  the  Angel" 
and  "The  Prayer  of  the  Flowers";  for  Edward  Lear's 
"The  Pobble  Who  Has  No  Toes" ;  for  Dante  Gabriel  Ros- 
setti's  "Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies"  and  "A  Sonnet  is  a 
Moment's  Monument";  and  for  Christina  Rossetti's 
"When  I  am  Dead,  My  Dearest." 

MR.   HANIEL   LONG  and   POETRY:  A  MAGAZINE 

OF  VERSE— 
For  "Dead  Men  Tell  No  Tales." 


v  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY— 

For  John  Gould  Fletcher's  "Broadway's  Canyon";  for 
Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson's  "Prelude";  for  Thomas  Hardy's 
"In  a  Wood"  and  "Her  Initials";  for  William  Ernest 
Henley's  "Romance/'  "Margaritae  Sorori,"  "Villanelle," 
and  "Invictus";  for  Vachel  Lindsay's  "Abraham  Lincoln 
Walks  at  Midnight,"  "The  Eagle  that  is  Forgotten,"  and 
"On  the  Building  of  Springfield";  for  John  Masefield's 
"The  West  Wind,"  "A  Consecration/'  "The  Yarn  of 
the  'Loch  Achray/ "  three  sonnets  ("Now  They  Are 
Gone/'  "I  Never  See  the  Red  Rose,"  and  "Be  with  Me, 
Beauty"),  and  a  selection  from  "The  Widow  in  the  Bye 
Street" ;  for  Edgar  Lee  Masters's  "Come,  Republic," 
"Alexander  Throckmorton,"  "George  Gray,"  and  "John 
Hancock  Otis";  for  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson's  "The 
Master,"  "Mr.  Flood's  Party,"  "An  Inscription  by  the 
Sea,"  "The  Dark  Hills,"  "Monadnock  through  the 
Trees,"  "Firelight,"  "Souvenir,"  and  a  selection  from 
"Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a  Man  from  Stratford" ;  for 
Tennyson's  "The  Splendor  Falls,"  "Ring  Out,  Wild 
Bells,"  "To  the  Queen,"  "Crossing  the  Bar,"  "Sweet  and 
Low,"  "Ulysses,"  "Sir  John  Franklin,"  "To  Virgil," 
"Break,  Break,  Break,"  and  "Flower  in  the  Crannied 
Wall";  for  Sara  Teasdale's  "I  Shall  Not  Care,"  "Wis- 
dom," and  "The  Lamp" ;  for  Rabindranath  Tagore's 
"Prayer  for  India";  for  William  Butler  Yeats's  "The 
Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,"  "When  You  are  Old  and  Gray," 
and  Song  from  "The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire";  and  for 
"Jesse  James"  from  John  A.  Lomax's  Cowboy  Songs. 

THE  MANAS  PRESS,  Rochester,  N.  Y.— 

For  Adelaide  Crapsey's  "Triad,"  "The  Warning,"  and 
"On  Seeing  Weather-beaten  Trees." 

JOHN  P.  MORTON  AND  COMPANY,  Louisville,  Ky. 
For  Walter  Malone's  "Abraham  Lincoln." 

MR.  JOHN  MURRAY— 

For  Robert  Bridges's  "Who  Builds  a  Ship." 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xv 

MISS  AMY  LOWELL  and  THE  NEW  REPUBLIC— 
For  "Texas/'  which  appeared  in  that  magazine  for  De- 
cember 29,   1920. 

MR.  EZRA  POUND— 

For  his  "In  a  Station  of  the  Metro." 

HARR  WAGNER  PUBLISHING  COMPANY— 

For  "Joaquin"  Miller's  "Westward  Ho!" 

LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  COMPANY— 

For  Andrew  Lang's  "Ballade  of  Theocritus  in  Winter" 
and  "Ballade  of  the  Southern  Cross." 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS— 

For  John  McCrae's  "In  Flanders  Fields." 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS— 

For  Henry  Cuyler  Bunner's  "A  Pitcher  of  Mignonette" 
and  "'One,  Two,  Three'";  for  Eugene  Field's  "The 
Truth  about  Horace";  for  Sidney  Lanier's  "The  Song 
of  the  Chattahoochee" ;  for  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson's 
"The  Master";  for  Alan  Seeger's  "I  Have  a  Rendezvous 
with  Death";  for  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  "Requiem"; 
for  Henry  van  Dyke's  "Tennyson";  and  for  John  Hall 
Wheelock's  "Earth." 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY— 

For  Gelett  Burgess's  "The  Purple  Cow" ;  and  for  Alfred 
Noyes's  "Niobe,"  "Unity,"  "The  Highwayman,"  "Kil- 
meny,"  Song  from  "Tales  of  the  Mermaid  Tavern,"  a 
portion  of  "Astrid,"  and  Song  from  "Drake." 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

PREFACE vii 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS .     .  xi 

CHAPTER 

I.     THE  STUDY  OF  POETHT   ...........  1 

II.     THE  SONG 21 

III.  THE  DUPLE  METERS 65 

IV.  THE  TRIPLE  METERS 137 

V.     IAMBIC   PENTAMETER 172 

VI.     THE  BALLAD 235 

VII.     THE  SONNET 268 

VIII.     THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS 294 

IX.     LIGHT  VERSE 317 

X.     FREE   VERSE .363 

XI.     POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME 388 

XII.     THE   CONTEMPORARY  POETS 443 

APPENDIX 

I.     NOTES 483 

II.     BIBLIOGRAPHY 495 

GENERAL  INDEX 499 

INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES     ,  517 


LIST  OF  POEMS 

CHAPTER  PAQH 

I.     THE   STTTOY   OF   POETRY 1 

Watson,  William:  Lachrinue  Musarum  (in  part)    .      .  1 

Dickinson,  Emily:  A  Book 4 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf:  Burns   (in  part)        ...  5 

Bryant,  William  Cullen:  The  Poet 9 

Fletcher,  John  Gould:  Blake 15 

II.    THE    SOKG 21 

Foster,  Stephen  Collins:  Old  Folks  at  Home     ...  23 

Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot 28 

Burns,  Robert:  Afton  Water 31 

Burns,  Robert:  Auld  Lang  Syne 33 

Douglas,  William,  and  Lady  John  Scott:  Annie  Laurie  34 

Shakespeare,  William:  Hark,  Hark,  the  Lark     ...  36 

Jonson,  Ben:  Song  to  Celia 37 

Moore,   Thomas:  BeUeve  Me  if  All  Those  Endearing 

Young    Charms 38 

Oilman,  Samuel:  Fair  Harvard 39 

Newman,  John  Henry:  Lead,  Kindly  Light       ...  41 

Key,  Francis  Scott:  The  Star-Spangled  Banner       .      .  42 

Smith,  Samuel  Francis:  America 44 

Carey,  Henry:  God  Save  the  King 45 

John  Brown's  Body          46 

Howe,  Julia  Ward:  The  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic  48 

Randall,  James  Ryder:  My  Maryland 50 

Stevenson,   Robert  Louis:  Requiem 53 

Kipling,  Rudyard:  The  Gipsy  Trail 53 

Burns,   Robert:  John   Anderson 55 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo:  Concord  Hymn       ....  56 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe:  To  Night 61 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  Crossing  the  Bar 62 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  Sweet  and  Low 63 

Yeats,    William    Butler:    Song    from    The    Land    of 

Heart's    Desire 64 

III.     THE   DUPLE    METERS 65 

Byron,  Lord:  She  Walks  in  Beauty 70 

Jonson,  Ben:  Hymn  to  Diana  (in  part) 71 

Longfellow,   Henry   Wadsworth:   Hiawatha    (in   part)  71 

Blake,  William:  The  Tiger  (in  part) 72 


LIST  OF  POEMS 


Scott,  Sir  Walter:  Hunting  Song 72 

Housman,  Alfred  Edward:  Reveille  (in  part)  .  .  73 
Blake,  William:  Songs  of  Innocence:  Introduetion  .  74 
Herrick,  Robert:  Upon  His  Departure  Hence  ...  76 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles:  The  Garden  of  Proser- 
pine    78 

Wordsworth,  William:  The  Solitary  Reaper  ...  84 

Wordsworth,  William:  /  Wandered  Lonely  ....  86 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo:  The  Rhodora  (in  part)  .  .  87 

Waller,  Edmund:  Go,  Lovely  Rose 87 

Bryant,  William  Cullen:  To  a  Water-fowl  ....  88 

Bryant,  William  Cullen:  Thanatopsis  (in  part)  .  .  90 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell:  The  Chambered  Nautilus 

(in  part) 90 

Henley,  William  Ernest:  Invictus 91 

Arnold,  Matthew:  Destiny 92 

Kipling,  Rudyard:  The  White  Man's  Burden  ...  92 
Doyle,  Sir  Francis  Hastings  Charles:  The  Private  of 

the  Buffs 94 

Wordsworth,  William:  Ode  to  Duty 96 

Lovelace,  Richard:  To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars  98 

Burns,  Robert:  A  Bard's  Epitaph 99 

Kingsley,  Charles:  Young  and  Old 100 

Goldsmith,  Oliver:  When  Lovely  Woman  Stoops  to 

Folly 101 

Noyes,  Alfred:  Niobe 102 

Keats,  John:  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 105 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  The  Splendor  Falls 107 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells  ....  108 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  To  the  Queen 110 

van  Dyke,  Henry:  Tennyson 112 

Beaumont,  Francis:  On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster 

Abbey  113 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  To  Virgil 113 

Pierpont,  John:  The  Ballot 115 

Miller,  Cincinnatus  Heine  ("Joaquin") :  Westward  Ho  116 

Hovey,  Richard:  Unmanifest  Destiny 117 

Kipling,  Rudyard:  For  All  We  Have  and  Are  .  .  118 
Burns,  Robert:  Brace's  Address  to  his  Army  at  Ban- 

nockburn 120 

Henley,  William  Ernest:  Romance 121 

Timrod,  Henry:  At  Magnolia  Cemetery 122 

Rossetti,  Christina  Georgina:  Song 123 

Teasdale,  Sara:  I  Shall  Not  Care 124 

Teasdale,  Sara:  Wisdom 124 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf :  Snow-Bound  (in  part)  .  .  125 
Scott,  Sir  Walter:  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  (in 

part) 125 


LIST  OF  POEMS  xxi 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Long,  Haniel:  Dead  Men  Tell  No  Tales       ....  126 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth:  Hymn  to  the  Night     .  127 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan:  To  One  in  Paradise 128 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor:  Kubla  Khan 130 

Shelley,   Percy   Bysshe:   To   a  Skylark 132 

IV.     THE   TRIPLE   METERS 137 

Byron,  Lord:  The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib  .      .      .  138 

Byron,  Lord:  O  Talk  Not  to  Me 139 

Cowper,  William:  The  Poplar  Field 140 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles:  A  Forsaken  Garden  .  142 
Wolfe,  Charles:  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at 

Corunna 145 

Browning,    Robert:   Prospice 146 

Scott,  Sir  Walter:  Coronach 148 

Browning,  Robert:  The  Year's  at  the  Spring     .      .      .  149 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe:  The  Cloud 149 

Hood,  Thomas:  The  Bridge  of  Sighs         153 

Browning,  Robert:  The  Lost  Leader 157 

Noyes,  Alfred:   Unity 159 

Noyes,  Alfred:  Seven  Wise  Men 160 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth:  Evangeline   (in  part)  162 

Lanier,  Sidney:  The  Song  of  the  Chattahoochee       .      .  164 

Byron,  Lord:  The  Bride  of  Abydos  (in  part)    .      .      .  165 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor:  The  Knight's  Tomb       .      .  166 

O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur  William  Edgar:  Ode     .      .      .  167 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  Break,  Break,  Break       ....  168 

Yeats,  William  Butler:  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree     ,  169 

Masefield,  John:  The   West   Wind 170 

V.     IAMBIC   PENTAMETER 172 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo:  This  Shining  Moment  .  .  172 

Marlowe,  Christopher:  Doctor  Faustus  (in  part)  .  .  173 
Shakespeare,  William:  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

(in  part)  174 

Shakespeare,  William:  Hamlet  (in  part)  ....  175 

Shakespeare,  William:  Othello  (in  part)  ....  175 

Fletcher,  John (?):  Henry  VIII  (in  part)  ....  176 

Milton,  John:  Comus  (in  part) 177 

Milton,  John:  Paradise  Lost  (in  part) 179 

Wordsworth,  William:  The  Prelude  (in  part)  .  .  .  179 

Keats,  John:  Hyperion  (in  part) 181 

Landor,  WT alter  Savage:  To  Robert  Browning  .  .  .  182 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  Ulysses 183 

Bryant,  William  Cullen:  The  Prairies  (in  part)  .  .  186 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo:  The  Snow-Storm  ....  187 
Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a 

Man  from  Stratford  (in  part) 188 


xxii  LIST  OF  POEMS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Frost,  Robert:  Mending  Watt 189 

Dobson,  Austin:  Ars  Victrix  (in  part) 192 

Homer:  The  Iliad  (in  part) 193 

Crapsey,  Adelaide:  On  Seeing  Weather-beaten  Trees  .  194 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey:  Prologue  (in  part) 195 

Dryden,  John:  Lines  Printed  under  the  Engraved  Por- 
trait of  Milton 197 

Pope,  Alexander:  Essay  on  Criticism   (in  part)      .     .  197 

Keats,  John:  Sleep  and  Poetry   (in  part)      ....  198 

Browning,  Robert:  My  Last  Duchess 199 

Frost,  Robert:  The  Tuft  of  Flowers 201 

Gray,  Thomas:  Elegy   Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard        205 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  Mr.  Flood's  Party     .      .211 
Fitzgerald,  Edward:  The  Rubdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam 

(in    part) 213 

Byron,  Lord:  The  Vision  of  Judgment  (in  part)     .      .  214 

Morris,  William:  An  Apology 215 

Masefield,  John:   The    Widow   in   the  Bye  Street    (in 

part) 217 

Spenser,  Edmund:  The  Fcsrie  Queene  (in  part)  .  .  218 
Thomson,  James:  The  Castle  of  Indolence  (in  part)  .  219 
Keats,  John:  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  (in  part)  ...  220 
Byron,  Lord:  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  (in  part)  .  221 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe:  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  ...  223 
Wordsworth,  William:  Ode:  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality    228 

VI.    THE    BALLAD 235 

Lord  Randal 239 

The  Twa  Corbies 240 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 241 

Fair  Helen 243 

Jesse  James 244 

Katharine  Jaffray 246 

Scott,  Sir  Walter:  Lochinvar 248 

Kipling,  Rudyard:  Danny  Deever         252 

Masefield,  John:  The  Yarn  of  the  "Loch  Achray"    .     .  254 

Keats,  John:  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci     ....  257 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf:  Skipper  Ireson's  Ride   .      .  259 

Noyes,  Alfred:  The  Highwayman 262 

VII.    THE    SONNET        268 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel:  A  Sonnet  is  a  Moment's  Mon- 
ument      268 

Milton,  John:  When  I  Consider 270 

Keats,  John:  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer  271 


LIST  OF  POEMS  xxiii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Shakespeare,    William:    Shall   I    Compare    Thee    to    a 

Summer's  Day 272 

Shakespeare,  William:  No  Longer  Mourn  for  Me 

When  I  Am  Dead 273 

Shakespeare,  William:  To  Me,  Fair  Friend,  You 

Never  Can  Be  Old 274 

Spenser,  Edmund:  What  Guile  is  This,  that  those 

her  Golden  Tresses 275 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip:  Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep,  the  Certain 

Knot  of  Peace 276 

Drayton,  Michael:  Since  There's  No  Help,  Come  Let 

us  Kiss  and  Part 277 

Milton,  John:  On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont  .  278 

Wordsworth,  William:  London,  1803 278 

Wordsworth,  William:  The  World  is  Too  Much  with 

Us 279 

Byron,  Lord:  Sonnet  on  Chilian 280 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe:  Ozymandias 281 

Keats,  John:  On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket  .  .  .  282 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett:  How  Do  I  Love  Thee?  283 

Bridges,  Robert:  Who  Builds  a  Ship 284 

Brooke,  Rupert:  The  Soldier 284 

Arnold,  Matthew:  Shakespeare 285 

Watson,  Sir  William:  Written  in  Mr.  Sidney  Lee's 

Life  of  Shakespeare 286 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth:  Oft  Have  I  Seen  at 

Some  Cathedral  Door 287 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadswcrth:  O  Star  of  Morning 

and  of  Liberty 287 

Masefield,  John:  Now  They  Are  Gone  with  All  Their 

Songs  and  Sins 288 

Masefield,  John:  I  Never  See  the  Red  Rose  Crown 

the  Year 289 

Masefield,  John:  On  Growing  Old 290 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  Firelight 290 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  Souvenir 291 

Wordsworth,  William:  Scorn  Not  the  Sonnet  ...  292 

Watts-Dunton,  Theodore:  The  Sonnefs  Voice  ...  293 

VIII.     THE  OLD   FREXCH   FORMS 294 

Lang,  Andrew:  Ballade  to  Theocritus,  in  Winter     .      .  295 

Lang,  Andrew:  Ballade  of  the  Southern  Cross       .      .  296 

Dobson,  Austin:  A  Ballad  of  Heroes 297 

Dobson,  Austin:  The  Prodigals 299 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel:  The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies     .  300 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey:   To  Rosemounde,  a  Balade       .      .  303 

McCrae,  John:  In  Flanders  Fields 304 

Napier,  Eliot:  All  Men  Are  Free 304 


xxiv  LIST  OF  POEMS 


Dobson,  Austin:  In  After  Days 305 

Dobson,  Austin:   The   Wanderer 306 

Dobson,  Austin:   Vitas  Hinnuleo 307 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles:  A  Baby's  Feet   .      .      .  308 

Dobson,   Austin:  A    Kiss 309 

Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler:  A  Pitcher  of  Mignonette  .      .  309 

Dobson,  Austin:   When  I  Saw   You  Last,  Rose       .      .  310 

Henley,  William  Ernest:   Villanelle 311 

Scollard,  Clinton:  In  the  Sultan's  Garden     ....  312 

Gosse,  Edmund:  Sestina  to  F.  H.       ......  314 


IX.    LIGHT  VERSE 317 

Harte,  Francis  Bret:  Her  Letter 318 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey:  Palabras  Carinosas     .      .      .  323 
Moore,  Thomas:   The   Time   I've  Lost  in   Wooing    (in 

part) 324 

Herrick,   Robert:   To   the    Virgins,   to  Make  Much  of 

Time 325 

Field,  Eugene:   The   Truth  about  Horace      ....  326 

Untermeyer,  Louis:  Questioning  Lydia 327 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell:  The  Last  Leaf       ....  328 

Locker-Lampson,  Frederick:  My  Mistress's  Boots       .  330 
Peabody,     Josephine     Preston:     "Vanity,     Saith     the 

Preacher"        332 

Prior,  Matthew:  To  a  Child  of  Quality  Five  Years  Old  334 

Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler:  "One,  Two,  Three"     ....  335 

Byron,  Lord:  To  Thomas  Moore 337 

Pinkney,  Edward  Coate:  A  Health 338 

Burgess,  Gelett:  The  Purple  Cow   .......  340 

Lear,  Edward:  The  Pobble  Who  Has  No  Toes  ...  340 

Hood,  Thomas:  Faithless  Nelly  Gray 342 

The  Young  Lady  of  Niger 345 

Gary,  Phoerbe:  When  Lovely  Woman  Wants  a  Favor    .  345 
Harte,  Francis  Bret:  Mrs.  Judge  Jenkins     ....  346 
Loines,  Russell  Hilliard:  On  a  Magazine  Sonnet     .      .  348 
Browne,  William:  On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pem- 
broke       349 

Pope,    Alexander:    Epitaph    Intended    for    Sir    Isaac 

Newton 349 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  Sir  John  Franklin:  On  the  Ceno- 
taph in  Westminster  Abbey 349 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  An  Inscription  by  the  Sea  350 

Gay,  John:  Life  is  a  Jest 350 

Rochester,  Earl  of:  Epitaph  on  Charles  77     ....  350 

Burns,  Robert:  Epitaph  on  John  Dove 351 

Macaulay,  Lord:  A  Jacobite's  Epitaph 351 

Tinker,  Chauncey  B.:  Brussels  Cross  Inscription     .     .  352 


LIST  OF  POEMS  xxv 


Prior,  Matthew:  To  His  Soul 35J 

Dickinson,  Emily:  Thus  Quiet  Dust 353 

Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang:  Wanderer's  Night-songs     .  353 

Landor,  Walter  Savage:  On  His  Seventy-fifth  Birthday  354 

Lanclor,  Walter  Savage:  On  Death 354 

Landor,  Walter   Savage:    With  Petrarch's  Sonnets      .  354 

Prior,  Matthew:  Written  in  a  Lady's  Milton     .      .      .  355 

Hardy,  Thomas:  Her  Initials 355 

Pope,  Alexander:  /  Am  His  Highness'  Dog  at  Kew     .  355 

Watson,  Sir  William:  His  Friends  He  Loved     .      .      .  355 

Brereton,  Mrs.  Jane:  On  Beau  Nash's  Picture     .      .      .  356 

Chesterfield,  Earl  of:  Immortal  Newton 356 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey:  Woman's  Will 356 

Wattles,   Willard:   Creeds 356 

Hunt,  Leigh:  Rondeau 357 

Morley,  Christopher:  To  a  Post-Office  Inkwell     .      .      .  357 

Byron,  Lord:  Lines  Written  in  an  Album  at  Malta     .  357 

Lowell,  James  Russell:  For  an  Autograph     ....  358 

Lowell,  James  Russell:  To  Those   Who  Died     ...  358 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson:  Navies  nor  Armies     .      .      .  359 

Watson,  Sir  William:  To  Christina  Rossetti  ....  359 

Whitman,  Walt:  To  Old  Age 359 

Pound,  Ezra:  In  a  Station  of  the  Metro 360 

Crapsey,  Adelaide:    Triad 360 

Crapsey,  Adelaide:  The   Warning 360 

Dobson,  Austin:  Jocosa  Lyra 361 


X.     FREE  VERSE 363 

Collins,  William:  Ode  to  Evening 365 

Nineteenth  Psalm    (in  part) 368 

Teasdale,   Sara:    The   Lamp 368 

Arnold,  Matthew:   Philomela 369 

Masters,   Edgar   Lee:  Alexander   Throckmorton      .      .  373 

Dunsany,  Lord:  The  Worm  and  the  Angel     ....  373 
Swinburne,   Algernon   Charles:   To    Walt    Whitman   in 

America    (in   part)        375 

Whitman,  Walt:  To  a  Certain  Civilian 376 

Whitman,  Walt:  When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astrono- 
mer          377 

Whitman,   Walt:  As  Toilsome  I   Wander'd   Virginia's 

Woods        378 

Whitman,  Walt:  Darest  Thou  Now,  O  Soul  ....  379 

Henley,  William   Ernest:  Margaritrp  Sorori       .      ,      .  380 

Bynner,  Witter:  The  New  World  (in  part)   ....  381 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee:  Come,  Republic 382 

Sandburg,  Carl:  A   Fence 384 

Fletcher,  John  Gould:  Exit 385 


xxvi  LIST  OF  POEMS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XI.     POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME 388 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan:  The  Sleeper 389 

Burns,   Robert:  Highland  Mary 392 

Wordsworth,  William:  She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrod- 
den   Ways 393 

.  Landor,  Walter  Savage:  Rose  Aylmer 394 

Byron,  Lord:  Oh!  Snatch' d  Away  in  Beauty's  Bloom  395 

Arnold,  Matthew:  Requiescat 39.5 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf :  Telling  the  Bees     ....  396 

Millay,  Edna  St.  Vincent:  Elegy 398 

Malone,  Walter:  Abraham  Lincoln 401 

Whitman,  Walt:  O  Captain!  my  Captain!     ....  40:2 

Bryant,  William  Cullen:  The  Death  of  Lincoln       .      .  403 
Lowell,  James   Russell:   Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard 

Commemoration    (in   part) 404 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  The  Master       ....  406 

Lindsay,  Vachel:  Abraham  Lincoln  Walks  at  Midnight  409 
Watson,  Sir  William:  For  Metaphors  of  Man     .      .      .410 

Morris,  William:  A  Garden  by  the  Sea  (in  part)    .      .  412 

Tennyson,  Alfred:  Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall     .      .  412 

Wordsworth,  William:  Tintern  Abbey  (in  part)      .      .  413 

Wordsworth,  William:  Elegiac  Stanzas 414 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan:  Sonnet — To  Science   (in  part)        .  416 
Tennyson,  Alfred:  In  Memoriam  (in  part)     .      .      .      .417 

Arnold,  Matthew:  Dover  Beach 418 

Hardy,  Thomas:  In  a  Wood 420 

Kilmer,  Joyce:   Trees 422 

Wheelock,  John   Hall:  Earth 423 

Byron,  Lord:  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  (in  part)      .  426 

Harte,  Francis  Bret:  San  Francisco  (in  part)     .      .      .  427 
Wordsworth,    William:    Composed   upon    Westminster 

Bridge        428 

Browning,  Robert:  Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in  the  City  .  429 

Fletcher,  John  Gould:  Broadway's  Canyon     ....  432 

Sandburg,    Carl:    Chicago 433 

Whitman,  Walt:  To  a  Locomotive  in  Winter     .      .      .  43o 

Lindsay,  Vachel:  On  the  Building  of  Springfield    .      .  437 

Lowell,   Amy:   Texas 440 

Dunsany,  Ix>rd:  The  Prayer  of  the  Flowers      .     .     .  442 

XII.     THE   CONTEMPORARY   POETS 443 

Kipling,  Rudyard:  The  King 449 

Yeats,  William  Butler:  When  You  Are  Old  and  Gray  451 

Masefleld,  John:  A  Consecration .  455 

Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson:  Prelude 456 

Shepard,  Odell:   Certain  American  Poets     ....  458 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard:  The  Eternal  Way     ....  459 

"H.  D."   (Mrs.  Richard  Aldington):  Oread       ...  461 


LIST  OF  POEMS  xxvii 

PAGE 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  The  Dark  Hills  .  .  .  462 
Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington:  Monadnock  Through  the 

Trees 463 

Lindsay,  Vachel:  The  Eagle  That  Is  Forgotten  .  .  464 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee:  George  Gray 466 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee:  John  Hancock  Otis  ....  467 

Tagore,  Rabindranath:  A  Prayer  for  India  ....  469 
Mordaunt,  Major  Thomas  O.:  Sound,  Sound  the 

Clarion 471 

Kipling,  Rudyard:  Recessional 472 

Seeger,  Alan:  /  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death  .  .  474 

Ledwidge,  Francis:  Soliloquy  (in  part)  ....  475 

Binyon,  Laurence:  For  the  Fallen 476 

Sassoon,  Siegfried:  Song-books  of  the  War  ....  478 

Noyes,  Alfred:  Kilmeny 479 

Sandburg,  Carl:  A.  E.  F ,480 


INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

The  seasons  change,  the  winds  they  shift  and  veer; 

The  grass  of  yesteryear 

Is  dead ;  the  birds  depart,  the  groves  decay : 

Empires  dissolve  and  peoples  disappear: 

Song  passes  not  away. 

Captains  and  conquerors  leave  a  little  dust, 

And  kings  a  dubious  legend  of  their  reign ; 

The  swords  of  Caesars,  they  are  less  than  rust: 

The  poet  doth  remain. 

William  Watson:  "Lachrimce  Musarum" 

"THE  future  of  poetry  is  immense,  because  in  poetry, 
where  it  is  worthy  of  its  high  destinies,  our  race,  as  time 
goes  on,  will  find  an  ever  surer  and  surer  stay."  We  can 
think  of  no  better  way  of  beginning  a  poetic  anthology 
than  by  quoting  this  opening  sentence  of  Matthew 
Arnold's  Introduction  to  Ward's  English  Poets.  These 
words  are  as  true  today  as  they  were  half  a  century  ago 
when  they  were  written.  For  "Poetry,"  as  Wordsworth 
said,  "is  as  immortal  as  the  heart  of  man."  If  poetry  is 
not  immortal,  it  is  at  any  rate  more  nearly  so  than  any- 
thing else  made  by  man.  No  one,  in  fine,  can  afford  to 
remain  indifferent  to  this  great  and  imperishable  posses- 
sion of  the  race. 

1 


2  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

We  are,  however,  living  in  a  rapidly  changing  age 
which  has  little  patience  with  anything  belonging  to  the 
past.  Old  ideas,  old  conventions,  old  standards  seem 
to  be  passing  away.  Although,  strangely  enough,  no  one 
suggests  that  poetry  is  something  we  have  outgrown,  there 
are  nevertheless  many  who  assert  that  we  have  outgrown 
much  of  the  poetry  which  preceding  generations  thought 
great.  This  is  natural  and  inevitable,  and  no  one  need 
regret  it.  We  do  not  look  for  exactly  the  same  things  in 
poetry  that  our  Victorian  grandparents  sought,  for  our 
view  of  life  is  different  from  theirs.  Each  age  must  give 
its  own  answer  to  the  recurring  question,  Why  read 
poetry?  Although  the  answer  which  we  give  today  is  not 
essentially  different  from  that  given  long  ago  by  Aristotle 
or  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  it  is  indispensable  that  we  answer 
the  question  for  ourselves,  even  though  we  may  merely 
translate  into  modern  terms  what  older  apologists  have 
said. 

Throughout  this  chapter  and,  to  a  less  degree,  through- 
out the  entire  book,  we  shall  quote  extensively  from  what 
the  poets  themselves  have  had  to  say  about  their  aims 
and  methods.  The  best  interpreter  is  the  poet  himself, 
particularly  if  he  be,  like  Arnold,  Coleridge,  Poe,  or  Amy 
Lowell,  a  gifted  critic  as  well. 

Many  are  the  motives  which  induce  men  to  read  books. 
In  the  preface  to  his  novel,  Pierre  et  Jean,  Guy  de 
Maupassant  wrote :  "The  public  is  composed  of  numerous 
groups  who  say  to  us  [writers]  :  'Console  me, — amuse 
me, — make  me  sad, — make  me  sentimental, — make  me 
dream, — make  me  laugh, — make  me  tremble, — make  me 
weep, — make  me  think.'  But  there  are  some  chosen  spirits 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  3 

who  demand  of  the  artist:  'Make  for  me  something  fine, 
in  the  form  which  suits  you  best,  following  your  own  tem- 
perament.' "  In  other  words,  the  reasons  why  men  turn 
to  fiction  and  poetry  are  almost  endless  in  their  variety, 
but  the  reader  whom  every  novelist  and  every  poet  most 
desires  is  he  who  first  ascertains  what  the  writer  is  trying 
to  do  and  then  judges  his  success  or  failure  by  that  aim. 

Lord  Dunsany,  the  Irish  dramatist,  has  said :  "Of  pure 
poetry  there  are  two  kinds,  that  which  mirrors  the  beauty 
of  the  world  in  which  our  bodies  are,  and  that  which  builds 
the  more  mysterious  kingdoms  where  geography  ends  and 
fairyland  begins,  with  gods  and  heroes  at  war,  and  the 
sirens  singing  still,  and  Alph  going  down  to  the  darkness 
from  Xanadu."  Borrowing  the  terminology  of  prose  fic- 
tion, we  shall  call  these  two  kinds  of  poetry  realjsjbic  and 
romantic. 

There  are  times  when  we  turn  to  poetry  as  a  means  of 
escape  from  prosaic  surroundings.  In  this  mood  poetry 
offers  a  pleasing  means  of  beguiling  an  otherwise  tedious 
hour.  Poetry,  said  Keats, 

should  be  a  friend 
To  soothe  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts  of  man. 

In  this  mood  we  turn  from  what  Wordsworth  called  the 
"familiar  matter  of  to-day"  to 

old,  unhappy   far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago. 

We  lose  ourselves  in  Camelot  with  Arthur,  Lancelot,  and 
Guinevere,  or  roam  the  Scottish  Highlands  with  James 
Fitz-James  and  Ellen  Douglas,  or  we  turn  to  the  age  of 
chivalry  which  Keats  magically  resurrected  in  "The  Eve 


4  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

of  St.  Agnes.'*  Or  again,  we  turn  to  external  nature,  as 
did  Keats  in  his  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale."  "On  the  viewless 
wings  of  Poesy"  we  may,  with  him, 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves   hast  never  known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan. 

Emily  Dickinson,  a  New  England  poet  whose  work  is  too 
little  known,  has  admirably  expressed  the  mood  in  which 
we  prefer  the  poetry  of  romance. 

A  BOOK* 

There  is  no  frigate  like  a  book, 

To  take  us  lands  away, 
Nor  any  coursers  like  a  page 

Of  prancing  poetry. 
This  traverse  may  the  poorest  take 

Without  oppress  of  toll; 
How  frugal  is  the  chariot 

That  bears  a  human  soul ! 

Emily  Dickinson  (1830-1886) 

But  there  is  a  mood  in  which  we  turn  to  poetry  of  a 
different  kind.     Amy  Lowell  has  said, 

All  books  are  either  dreams,  or  swords, 
You  can  cut,  or  you  can  drug,  with  words. 

We  do  not  always  wish  to  escape  life;  we  often  wish  to 
learn  more  about  it.     The  poet  can  show  us  the  poetry 
latent  in  even  the  most  prosaic  surroundings.     An  old 
*  Copyrighted  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  5 

lady  who  was  looking  at  a  picture  of  the  river  Thames 
by  Whistler  said  to  the  painter,  "Mr.  Whistler,  I  have 
lived  in  London  fifty  years,  and  I  never  saw  the  river  look 
like  that."  The  painter's  reply  was  "Ah,  but  don't  you 
wish  you  could!"  As  another  painter,  Browning's  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi,  puts  it, 

We're  made  so  that  we  love 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see; 
And  so  they're  better,  painted — better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that. 

It  is  in  this  mood  that  we  prefer  the  realistic  Browning 
to  the  romantic  Keats.  The  poet  can  teach  us  what 
Burns  taught  Whittier,  as  the  latter  tells  us  in  "Burns" : 

New  light  on  home-seen   Nature  beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

I  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  repining  debtor.  .  .  . 

Why  drearn  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  there  already? 

The  poetry  of  words  should  help  us  to  see  the  poetry 
of  life.     For  poetry  is  not  merely  something  found  in 


6  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

books ;  it  is  a  way  of  looking  at  life.  There  is  an  embryo 
poet  in  every  one  of  us.  Emerson  wrote  in  "The  En- 
chanter," 

The  little   Shakespeare   in   the   maiden's  heart 
Makes  Romeo  of  a  plough-boy  on  his  cart. 

The  greatest  thing  a  poet  can  do  for  us  is  to  let  us  look 
at  the  world  with  his  eyes. 

The  poetry  which  holds  us  longest  is  that  which  has 
some  intimate  relation  to  our  own  lives.  We  do  not  care 
to  linger  in  the  weird  world  of  Foe's  "Ulalume,"  for  the 
characters  seem  hardly  human.  The  poet,  however,  need 
not  always  write  of  the  near-at-hand  and  the  contem- 
porary. He  may  "show  virtue  her  own  feature,  scorn 
her  own  image"  without  being  an  ultra-realist.  The 
characters  of  the  most  improbable  romances,  like  Ivanhoe 
and  Marmion,  may  be  as  real  to  us  as  the  town  drunkard 
in  the  Spoon  River  Anthology.  Judged  by  any  standard 
of  probability,  the  plot  of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
is  utterly  absurd;  but  Bottom  and  Puck  are  as  real  as 
ourselves.  As  Aristotle  pointed  out,  it  often  happens  that 
there  is  more  truth  in  poetry  than  in  history. 

To  the  question,  What  is  poetry?  no  one  will  ever  give 
a  satisfactory  answer.  Poetry,  as  we  have  already  sug- 
gested, does  not  mean  the  same  thing  to  any  two  poets 
or  lovers  of  poetry.  It  does  not  even  mean  the  same 
thing  to  the  same  person  in  two  successive  decades.  Most 
of  us  become  ashamed  of  our  youthful  favorites,  and  many 
poets  have  omitted  from  later  editions  those  verses  of 
which  they  once  were  proudest.  Poetry,  again,  resembles 
sorrow,  love,  and  faith;  only  experience  can  teach  us  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  7 

full  meaning  of  the  words.     As  Wordsworth  said  of  the 
poet, 

you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

Every  definition  of  poetry  should  not  only  state  its 
positive  qualities  but  should  also  exclude  certain  things 
which  are  often  confused  with  poetry  but  do  not  belong 
to  it.  For  generations  the  best  foreign  and  native  critics 
have  told  us  that  we  Anglo-Saxons  are  most  likely  to 
overestimate  the  intrinsic  poetic  worth  of  didactic  poetry. 
While  it  is  probably  true  that  the  greatest  poetry,  as 
Arnold  said  of  all  literature,  gives  us  "a  criticism  of 
life,"  it  does  not  follow  that  a  poem  should  ever  directly 
teach  a  moral.  Poe  never  tired  of  condemning  the 
didacticism  of  the  New  England  poets,  and  contemporary 
American  poets  and  critics  agree  that  he  was  right.  The 
older  New  England  poets  inherited  too  much  of  the 
Puritan  attitude  toward  life  to  be  able  always  to  distin- 
guish between  the  ethical  and  the  beautiful.  Occasionally, 
as  in  Kipling's  "If"  and  Wordsworth's  "Character  of 
the  Happy  Warrior,"  didactic  verse  is  so  excellent  of 
its  kind  that  only  a  very  rash  critic  will  deny  that  it  is 
genuinely  poetic.  Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life"  is  the 
classic  example  of  the  didactic  poem  which  is  popular 
with  the  average  reader  but  has  no  standing  with  critics 
and  scholars.  As  a  sermon,  it  is  magnificent ;  as  poetry, 
it  is  poor.  It  is  unfortunate  that  Longfellow's  sonnets 
on  Dante  are  so  little  known,  for  they  are  much  better 
poetry  and  are  not  marred  by  such  moral  tags  as  that 
which  closes  "The  Village  Blacksmith," 


8  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Thanks,  thanks,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught. 

The  poet  should  follow  the  advice  of  Lowell,  who  wrote  in 
"The  Origin  of  Didactic  Poetry," 

Put  all  your  beauty  in  your  rhymes, 
Your  morals  in  your  living. 

"The  poet's  only  moral  duty,  as  a  poet,"  says  Spingarn, 
"is  to  be  true  to  his  art,  and  to  express  his  vision  of 
reality  as  well  as  he  can." 

Another  common  error  is  to  imagine  that  there  is  some- 
thing supernatural  about  the  act  of  writing  poetry.  The 
composition  of  poetry  is  not  an  abnormal  process  at  all. 
A  little  experience  in  writing  verse  will  help  any  one  to 
see  that  the  poet  is  a  workman  in  words  who  excels  the 
rest  of  us  mainly  in  his  larger  conceptions  and  his  greater 
skill  in  embodying  these  in  poetic  language.  The  poet 
is  not  a  freak  but  a  man  of  keen  sensibilities  whose  emo- 
tional reactions  naturally  take  the  form  of  verse.  In 
China,  according  to  Witter  Bynner,  it  is  only  the  abnor- 
mal person  who  does  not  write  verse.  "A  vein  of  Poetry," 
said  Carlyle,  "exists  in  the  hearts  of  all  men;  no  man  is 
made  altogether  of  Poetry.  We  are  all  poets  when  we 
read  a  poem  well."  Certain  modern  critics,  Spingarn  and 
Croce,  go  so  far  as  to  assert  that  the  creative  and  the 
critical  instincts  are  one  and  the  same.  This  may  well 
be  doubted  although  Poe's  well-known  account  of  the 
composition  of  "The  Raven"  suggests  the  same  position. 
Psychology  will  perhaps  eventually  throw  more  light  upon 
the  obscure  process  of  poetic  composition.  Bryant's 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  9 

advice  to  would-be  poets  in  the  following  poem  is  worth 
reading  in  this  connection. 

THE  POET 

Thou  who  wouldst  wear  the  name 

Of  poet  'mid  thy  brethren  of  mankind, 

And  clothe  in  words  of  flame 

Thoughts  that  shall  live  within  the  general  mind ! 

Deem  not  the  framing  of  a  deathless  lay 

The  pastime  of  a  drowsy  summer  day. 

But  gather  all  thy  powers, 

And  wreak  them  on  the  verse  that  thou  dost  weave, 
And  in  thy  lonely  hours, 

At  silent  morning  or  at  wakeful  eve, 
While  the  warm  current  tingles  through  thy  veins 
Set  forth  the  burning  words  in  fluent  strains. 

No  smooth  array  of  phrase, 

Artfully  sought  and  ordered  though  it  be, 

Which  the  cold  rhymer  lays 

Upon  his  page  with  languid  industry, 

Can  wake  the  listless  pulse  to  livelier  speed, 

Or  fill  with  sudden  tears  the  eyes  that  read. 

The  secret  wouldst  thou  know 

To  touch  the  heart  or  fire  the  blood  at  will? 
Let  thine  own  eyes  o'erflow; 

Let  thy  lips  quiver  with  the  passionate  thrill; 
Seize  the  great  thought,  ere  yet  its  power  be  past, 

And  bind,  in  words,  the  fleet  emotion  fast. 

f 
Then,  should  thy  verse  appear 

Halting  and  harsh,  and  all  unaptly  wrought, 
Touch  the  crude  line  with  fear, 

Save  in  the  moment  of  impassioned  thought; 


10  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Then  summon  back  the  original  glow,  and  mend 
The  strain  with  rapture  that  with  fire  was  penned. 

Yet  let  no  empty  gust 

Of  passion  find  an  utterance  in  thy  lay, 
A  blast  that  whirls  the  dust 

Along  the  howling  street  and  dies  away; 
But  feelings  of  calm  power  and  mighty  sweep, 
Like  currents  journeying  through  the  windless  deep. 

Seek'st  thou,  in  living  lays, 

To  limn  the  beauty  of  the  earth  and  sky? 
Before  thine  inner  gaze 

Let  all  that  beauty  in  clear  vision  lie; 
Look  on  it  with  exceeding  love,  and  write 
The  words  inspired  by  wonder  and  delight. 

Of  tempests  wouldst  thou  sing, 

Or  tell  of  battles — make  thyself  a  part 

Of  the  great  tumult;  cling 

To  the  tossed  wreck  with  terror  in  thy  heart; 

Scale,  with  the  assaulting  host,  the  rampart's  height, 

And  strike  and  struggle  in  the  thickest  fight. 

So  shalt  thou  frame  a  lay 

That  haply  may  endure  from  age  to  age, 
And  they  who  read  shall  say: 

"What  witchery  hangs  upon  this  poet's  page ! 
What  art  is  his  the  written  spells  to  find 
That  sway  from  mood  to  mood  the  willing  mind !" 

William  Cullen  Bryant  (1794-1878") 

It  is  impossible  to  frame  a  definition  of  poetry  which 
will  include  all  poetry  and  exclude  prose.  The  true 
antithesis  of  poetry,  as  Coleridge  pointed  out,  is  not 
prose  but  science.  Poetry  is  emotional;  science  is  the 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  11 

opposite.  Science  deals  with  facts,  poetry  with  sugges- 
tions. The  scientist  calls  water  H2O;  the  poet  calls  it 
murmuring,  rippling,  still,  or  blue.  It  is  impossible  to 
make  any  exact  or  comprehensive  distinction  between  the 
language  or  the  subject  matter  of  poetry  and  prose. 
Nevertheless  we  all  feel  that  poetry  and  prose  are  not 
the  same  thing.  Instead  of  attempting  a  definition  of 
poetry,  we  shall  quote  a  number  of  representative  defini- 
tions, which  taken  together  give  as  accurate  a  conception 
of  poetry  as  it  is  possible  to  convey  in  definitions. 

Ruskin  defines  poetry  as  "the  presentment,  in  musical 
form,  to  the  imagination,  of  noble  grounds  for  the  noble 
emotions."  Wordsworth  also  emphasizes  the  emotional 
side  of  poetry  when  he  defines  it  as  "the  spontaneous 
overflow  of  powerful  feelings  recollected  in  tranquillity." 
In  another  definition,  which  emphasizes  the  content  of 
poetry,  Wordsworth  calls  it  "the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
of  all  knowledge."  Shelley's  definition  is  suggestive: 
"Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments 
of  the  best  and  happiest  minds."  Poe's  definition  is  "the 
rhythmical  creation  of  Beauty"  in  words.  The  language 
of  poetry,  said  Milton,  should  be  "simple,  sensuous, 
and  passionate."  In  a  notable  article  on  Poetry  in  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britaimica,  Theodore  Watts-Dunton  gives 
one  of  the  most  comprehensive  of  all  definitions:  "Abso- 
lute poetry  is  the  concrete  and  artistic  expression  of  the 
human  mind  in  emotional  and  rhythmical  language."  An 
even  better  definition  perhaps  is  that  of  the  American 
poet,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson:  "Poetry  is  a  language 
that  tells  us,  through  a  more  or  less  emotional  reaction, 
something  that  cannot  be  said.  All  poetry,  great  or 


12  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

small,  does  this.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  poetry  has^two 
characteristics.  One  is  that  it  is,  after  all,  undefinable. 
The  other  is  that  it  is  eventually  unmistakable." 

There  are  a  number  of  things  which  distinguish  genuine 
poetry  from  mere  versifying,  but  the  one  quality  which 
needs  most  to  be  emphasized  is  sincerity.  No  poem  can 
be  great  unless  its  author  is  sincere  in  telling  us  what  he 
sees  and  feels  and  thinks.  Above  all,  the  poet  must  not 
try  to  make  us  feel  what  he  himself  does  not  completely 
feel.  The  untrained  reader  often  fails  to  see  that  the 
language  of  an  inferior  poem  is  conventional  and  conse- 
quently insincere.  Such  poems,  with  their  outworn 
phrases,  to  quote  Pope, 

ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes, 
With  sure  return  of  still  expected  rhymes ; 
Where'er  you  find  "the  cooling  western  breeze/' 
In  the  next  line,  it  "whispers  through   the  trees": 
If  crystal  streams  "with  pleasing  murmurs  creep," 
The  reader's  threatened  (not  in  vain)  with  "sleep." 

Hamlet's  "take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles"  is  a 
classic  instance  of  the  poet's  failure  to  visualize  what  he 
is  saying.  Longfellow's  mariner,  in  "A  Psalm  of  Life" 
"sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main"  and  at  the  same  time 
examining  "footprints  on  the  sands  of  time,"  is  another 
example  of  confused  phrasing.  Walt  Whitman  used  to 
go  through  his  poems  ruthlessly  cutting  out  all  these 
trite  phrases,  which  today  are  usually  called  cliches. 
Learning  to  detect  the  trite,  the  insincere,  depends  upon 
practice.  Taste  in  poetry,  as  in  everything  else,  grows 
by  feeding  upon  the  right  things. 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  13 

But,  one  may  ask,  what  are  the  right  things  and  how 
do  you  know  that  they  are  the  right  things?  This  is  a 
question  difficult  to  answer.  It  is  not  enough  to  appeal  to 
the  great  names  of  the  past ;  for,  contrary  to  the  popular 
notion,  the  great  poets  do  not  enjoy  an  unchanging  fame. 
We  cannot  accept  even  Homer  as  a  great  poet  merely 
because  Matthew  Arnold  assures  us  that  he  is  one; 
Homer  must  prove  himself  a  great  poet  to  us. 

With  more  recent  poets,  like  Tennyson  and  Longfellow, 
the  problem  is  still  more  difficult.  The  poets  of  the  mid- 
nineteenth  century  are  being  severely  tested  today.  There 
are  many  who  deny  that  either  Tennyson  or  Longfellow 
was  a  poet  at  all.  Our  fathers  thought  Longfellow's 
"Village  Blacksmith"  and  Tennyson's  "May  Queen"  great 
poems,  but  to  us  the  former  seems  too  didactic  and  the 
latter  too  sentimental  to  be  great. 

In  the  last  analysis,  no  one  can  tell  exactly  what  makes 
a  poem  a  classic ;  and  it  is  best  for  us  frankly  to  admit 
that  fact.  Perhaps  the  best  answer  has  been  given  by 
Arnold  Bennett: 

"A  classic  is  a  work  which  gives  pleasure  to  the  minor- 
ity which  is  intensely  and  permanently  interested  in  litera- 
ture. It  lives  on  because  the  minority,  eager  to  renew 
the  sensation  of  pleasure,  is  eternally  curious  and  is 
therefore  engaged  in  an  eternal  process  of  rediscovery. 
A  classic  does  not  survive  for  any  ethical  reason.  It  does 
not  survive  because  it  conforms  to  certain  canons,  or 
because  neglect  would  kill  it.  It  survives  because  it  is  a 
source  of  pleasure,  and  because  the  passionate  few  can 
no  more  neglect  it  than  a  bee 'can  neglect  a  flower.  The 
passionate  few  do  not  read  'the  right  things'  because  they 


14  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

are  right.  That  is  to  put  the  cart  before  the  horse.  'The 
right  things*  are  the  right  things  solely  because  the  pas- 
sionate few  like  reading  them." 

Except  in  compiling  a  collection  of  contemporary 
poetry,  most  anthologists  make  it  a  rule  never  to  admit 
a  poem  by  a  living  author.  This  is  undoubtedly  playing 
safe,  for,  as  every  one  knows,  contemporary  estimates 
are  exceedingly  liable  to  be  wrong.  Critics  disagree  even 
concerning  poets  who  have  long  been  dead.  Matthew 
Arnold  thought  Gray  a  better  poet  than  either  Chaucer 
or  Burns.  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson  both  considered 
Burns  a  great  poet ;  but  Wordsworth  thought  Burns's 
songs  unworthy  of  him,  whereas  Tennyson  greatly  pre- 
ferred them  to  his  other  poems.  Still  another  poet, 
Aubrey  de  Vere,  did  not  care  at  all  for  Burns.  Literary 
history  is  full  of  once  hallowed  names  which  are  now 
forgotten.  What  verdict  posterity  will  ultimately  pass 
upon  living  poets,  no  man  knows. 

We  do  not,  however,  wish  the  reader  of  this  volume  to 
rest  under  the  misconception  that  poetry  is  something 
written  only  by  the  dead.  Consequently,  in  full  knowledge 
of  our  liability  to  error,  we  have  included  in  this  collection 
a  large  number  of  poems  by  living  authors.  It  is  prob- 
ably true  that  many  of  the  poems  we  have  included  will 
not  survive ;  but  there  is,  nevertheless,  much  to  be  gained 
from  setting  side  by  side  the  older  and  the  contemporary 
poets.  It  is  the  surest  test  of  each.  If  the  living  poets 
cannot  withstand  the  test  of  being  placed  beside  Burns, 
Shelley,  Wordsworth,  and  Browning,  then — so  much  the 
worse  for  them.  If  an  older  poet  offers  nothing  that  inter- 
ests the  present  generation,  we  shall  have  to  drop  him. 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  15 

We  include  the  poems  of  living  poets  especially  because 
they  should  mean  more  to  our  generation  than  they  can 
ever  mean  to  any  other.  It  is  a  matter  of  fundamental 
importance  that  we  should,  if  possible,  know  and  read 
our  poets  before  they  are  dead.  They  write  for  us  rather 
than  for  posterity.  Why  should  some  poet,  a  hundred 
years  hence,  find  occasion  to  write  of  a  poet  now  living 
as  John  Gould  Fletcher  has  recently  written  of  William 
Blake,  whose  work  was  hardly  recognized  until  fifty  years 
after  his  death? 

BLAKE 

Blake  saw 

Angels  in  a  London  street; 

God  the  Father  on  a  hill, 

Christ  before  a  tavern  door. 

Blake  saw 

All  these  shapes,  and  more. 

Blake  knew 

Other  men  saw  not  as  he; 

So  he  tried  to  give  his  sight 

To  that  beggarman,  the  world. 

"You  are  mad," 

Was  all  the  blind  world  said. 

Blake  died 

Singing  songs  of  praise  to  God. 
"They  are  not  mine,"  he  told  his  wife, 
"I  may  praise  them,  they  are  not  mine." 
Then  he  died.    And  the  world  called  Blake  divine. 
John  Gould  Fletcher  (1886-  ) 

"It  appears,"  says  Max  Eastman,  "that  a  poet  in  history 
is  divine,  but  a  poet  in  the  next  room  is  a  joke." 


16  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

One  should  beware  of  assuming  either  of  two  pernicious 
attitudes:  first,  that  only  contemporary  poetry  is  of  any 
importance  and,  second,  that  only  the  older  poetry  is 
worthy  of  serious  attention.  In  his  admirable  Study  of 
Poetry  Professor  Bliss  Perry  has  said:  "I  have  little 
confidence  in  the  taste  of  professed  admirers  of  poetry 
who  can  find  no  pleasure  in  contemporary  verse,  and  still 
less  confidence  in  the  taste  of  our  contemporaries  whose 
delight  in  the  'new  era*  has  made  them  deaf  to  the  great 
poetic  voices  of  the  past.  I  am  sorry  for  the  traditional- 
ist who  cannot  enjoy  Robert  Frost  and  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson  and  Edgar  Lee  Masters  and  Carl  Sandburg. 
He  is,  in  my  opinion,  in  a  parlous  state.  But  the  state 
of  the  young  rebel  who  cannot  enjoy  'Lycidas'  and  'The 
Progress  of  Poesy'  and  the  'Ode  to  Dejection'  is  worse 
than  parlous.  It  is  hopeless." 

Present-day  poetry  is  not  essentially  different  from 
that  of  a  century  ago.  We  are  in  the  midst  of  a  rather 
violent  reaction  against  nineteenth  century  poetic  ideals ; 
but  such  a  revolt,  as  Professor  J.  L.  Lowes  has  ably 
demonstrated  in  his  Convention  and  Revolt  in  Poetry, 
is  no  new  thing  in  poetic  history.  Euripides,  Marlowe, 
Dryden,  Wordsworth,  and  Victor  Hugo  were  rebels  also. 
The  past,  in  fact,  holds  the  key  to  the  understanding  of 
present-day  verse;  for,  as  Miss  Harriet  Monroe  has  said, 
"The  new  in  art  is  always  the  elder  old."  We  need, 
furthermore,  to  turn  to  older  writers  to  understand  what 
it  is  that  the  new  poets  are  rebelling  against.  Moreover, 
a  knowledge  of  older  poetry  helps  us  to  find  a  proper 
perspective  for  judging  the  poems  of  our  own  day. 

There  is  only  one  way  of  acquiring  a  thorough  under- 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  17 

standing  of  the  technical  aspects  of  poetry;  and  that  is 
by  writing  verse.  In  a  sense  it  is  doubtless  true  that 
poets  are  born  and  not  made,  but  they  certainly  come  into 
the  world  as  ignorant  of  versification  and  language  as  the 
rest  of  us.  The  poet  learns  the  use  of  his  tools  by  prac- 
tice, just  as  the  carpenter,  the  blacksmith,  and  the  mason 
learn  the  use  of  theirs.  It  is  not  always  remembered  that 
practically  all  the  important  critics  of  poetry  have  at- 
tempted to  write  poetry  themselves ;  and  our  greatest 
English  and  American  critics,  Coleridge,  Arnold,  Lowell, 
and  Poe,  were  genuine  poets  who  had  mastered  their  craft 
before  they  undertook  to  expound  its  laws.  Practice  in 
the  writing  of  verse,  moreover,  increases  one's  ability  to 
write  good  prose,  as  even  the  prosaic  Benjamin  Franklin 
found.  It  enlarges  the  vocabulary  and  sharpens  the 
feeling  for  the  subtle  distinctions  in  words. 

And  yet  one  hesitates  to  emphasize  the  value  of  verse 
writing  because  so  many  of  those  who  can  write  fluent 
verse  make  the  monumental  mistake  of  thinking  that  they 
are  great  poets.  In  every  state  in  the  Union  there  are 
hundreds  of  these  deluded  persons  who,  alas,  are  not  as 
mute  as  the  inglorious  Miltons  in  Gray's  "Elegy."  The 
love  of  poetry  and  the  ability  to  write  fluent  verse  do  not 
make  one  a  poet.  Great  poets  are  the  rarest  of  nature's 
productions ;  it  seems  as  if  she  threw  aside  thousands  of 
imperfect  specimens,  poetasters,  while  creating  one  great 
poet. 

Although  most  great  poems  were  written  before  the 
invention  of  the  riming  dictionary,  many  young  versifiers 
fancy  it  an  indispensable  part  of  every  poet's  baggage. 
Only  the  beginner  needs  the  riming  dictionary,  for  the 


18  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

poet  soon  acquires  from  practice  great  facility  in  re- 
calling all  the  rime  words  available  to  his  purpose.  As 
a  handy  substitute  for  the  large  riming  dictionary,  we 
suggest  the  following  vest  pocket  edition.  Let  us  sup- 
pose that  we  wish  a  rime  for  the  word  glee.  Glance 
down  the  following  list  of  consonants,  adding  the  vowel 
sound  ee  to  each  of  them  in  turn.  Make  a  list  of  the 
words  which  you  find. 

b-,  bl-,  br-,  c-,  ch-,  cl-,  cr-,  d-,  dr-,  f-,  fl-,  fr-,  g-, 
gl-,  gr-,  h-,  j-,  k-,  1-,  m-,  n-,  p-,  pi-,  pr-,  qu-,  r-, 
s-,  sc-,  sli-,  si-,  sm-,  sn-,  sp-,  squ-,  st-,  sir-,  sw-, 
t-,  th-,  tr-,  tw-,  v-,  w-,  wh-,  wr-,  y-,  z-. 

After  striking  out  the  combinations  which  do  not  make 
words,  we  have  be,  bee,  fee,  flea,  ftee,  glee,  agree,  degree, 
he,  key,  lea,  lee,  me,  kn#e,  pea,  plea,  quay,  sea,  see, 
ski,  she,  tea,  tee,  thee,  tree,  wee,  and  ye.  A  little  practice 
in  looking  for  rimes  will  show  that  certain  words,  like 
love,  have  very  few  mates.  Feminine,  or  doubte,  rimes  are 
particularly  difficult  to  find  in  English.  By  employing 
participial  endings  like  -ed  and  -ing,  one  can  manage  to 
find  enough  feminine  rimes  for  a  very  short  poem.  The 
little  dictionary  given  above  reveals  the  following  rimes 
for  seeing:  bemg,  feeing ,  freeing,  skiing,  and  treevng. 
For  burning  we  find  earning,  churning,  learning,  con- 
cerning, turning,  and  yearning.  The  student  who  wishes 
to  learn  to  write  correct  verse  should  study  some  of  the 
manuals  listed  in  the  Bibliography,  especially  those  of 
Fairchild  and  Andrews.  He  will  probably  find  that  rime 
presents  fewer  difficulties  than  several  other  matters. 

In  conclusion,  may  we  be  permitted  to  make  two  sug- 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  19 

gestions  to  those  who  wish  to  learn  to  understand  and 
enjoy  poetry?  One  reason  why  many  persons  find  poetry 
difficult  or  unpleasant  reading  is  that  they  regard  a  poem 
as  merely  a  collection  of  words  upon  the  printed  page. 
Poetry  is  meant  not  for  the  eye  but  for  the  ear;  it  is 
living  human  speech  and  not  cold  print.  Above  all  things, 
he  who  would  learn  to  love  great  poetry  should  avoid 
reading  it  as  he  reads  his  newspaper  or  the  latest  popular 
novel,  skipping  every  other  word  and  half  the  lines. 
Poetry  is  music;  and,  like  other  forms  of  music,  it  gains 
in  meaning  when  interpreted  by  the  human  voice.  When 
so  situated  that  he  cannot  read  aloud,  the  man  who  loves 
poetry  will  make  sure  that,  as  he  reads,  he  hears  distinctly 
every  syllable.  To  understand  and  enjoy  poetry,  one 
must  read  and  re-read  it  as  a  man  reads  and  re-reads  a 
letter  from  one  he  loves. 

If  after  a  sympathetic  and  careful  re-reading,  you 
find  that  such  a  poem  as  Wordsworth's  "Ode :  Intimations 
of  Immortality"  does  not  stir  you  profoundly,  perhaps 
the  reason  is  that  you  have  not  yet  had  the  experience 
of  life  necessary  to  give  you  an  understanding  of  this 
great  poem.  The  imagination  of  youth  partially  sup- 
plies the  place  of  experience ;  but  much  of  what  is  greatest 
in  poetry  is  comparatively  meaningless  to  those  who  have 
never  known  love,  sorrow,  married  life,  children.  It  is 
unfortunate  that  most  of  us  read  the  masterpieces  of 
English  poetry  only  in  our  immature  years  in  school  and 
college,  for  the  great  poets  write  mainly  for  the  mature 
and  the  experienced.  It  is  said  that  George  Edward 
Woodberry,  poet,  scholar,  and  critic,  was  once  delivering 
at  Columbia  University  an  enthusiastic  lecture  on  the 


20  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Italian  poet  Ariosto  when  he  was  interrupted  by  one  of 
his  students,  the  now  well-known  novelist  Upton  Sinclair, 
who  said:  "Professor  Woodberry,  I  don't  care  anything 
about  Ariosto.  What  shall  I  do  about  it?"  Mr.  Wood- 
berry  paused  a  moment  and  said,  "Young  man,  grow!" 
The  great  poets  should  be  our  life  companions.  The  more 
we  read  them,  the  better  we  shall  understand  them.  If  we 
do  not  continue  to  read  them  after  we  leave  school,  we 
shall  probably  have  to  confess  late  in  life,  like  Darwin, 
that  we  have  lost  the  power  to  enjoy  them. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SONG 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 

Milton :  "L'A  llegro" 

THE  song  is  a  poem  which  is  sung.  It  belongs  equally 
to  poetry  and  music,  two  arts  which  deal  with  sounds. 
In  music  the  term  often  includes  not  only  the  lyric  but 
also  the  ballad,  which  in  poetry  is  classed  separately  and 
will  be  discussed  in  a  later  chapter.  The  song  is  the 
simplest  and  yet  perhaps  the  most  enduring  form  of 
either  music  or  poetry.  It  is  the  oldest  form  of  music 
and,  the  ballad  alone  excepted,  also  of  poetry;  and  yet 
none  of  the  later  and  more  complex  forms  of  either  art 
has  so  wide  an  appeal  as  the  song.  The  Greeks  believed 
song  to  be  the  invention  of  the  gods,  and  a  Hebrew  poet 
tells  us  that  at  the  creation  "the  morning  stars  sang 
together"  for  joy.  Nothing  else  in  the  whole  range  of 
art  has  such  power  to  move  the  heart  as  this  blending  of 
melody  and  verse.  Only  Milton's  "fit  audience  .  .  . 
though  few"  find  pleasure  in  Paradise  Lost,  and  Bee- 
thoven's "Moonlight  Sonata"  is  "caviar  to  the  general"; 
but  "Annie  Laurie"  and  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  stir  the 
hearts  of  millions. 

21 


22  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Beautiful  melodies  and  great  poems  are  abundant,  but 
the  perfect  blend  of  the  two  is  one  of  the  rarest  things 
in  the  world  of  art.  There  are  many  stirring  airs  like 
"Dixie,"  which  are  yet  to  find  appropriate  words;  and 
there  are  many  lyrics  tike  "Crossing  the  Bar"  which, 
though  repeatedly  set  to  music,  still  lack  an  ideal  musical 
setting.  The  musician  and  the  poet  are  generally  too 
ignorant  of  one  another's  fields  to  achieve  the  ideal  union 
of  great  poetry  and  beautiful  music.  Great  songs  are  as 
rare  as  they  are  beautiful. 

Just  what  each  art  contributes  to  this  wedding  of 
poetry  and  music  is  best  discovered  by  examining  them 
separately.  The  poem  which  is  not  sung — Shelley's  "To 
a  Skylark"  for  instance — often  fails  to  arouse  any  emo- 
tion in  the  inexperienced  reader.  The  poem  does  not  sing 
itself  to  him,  as  the  poet  meant  that  it  should.  Music 
without  words,  on  the  other  hand,  is  apt  to  arouse  an 
emotion  which  is  vague  and  undefined,  not  linked  to  any 
definite  idea  or  image.  When  we  hear  even  so  simple  an 
air  as  Dvorak's  beautiful  "Humoresque,"  most  of  us  long 
for  words  to  tell  us  what  the  composer  is  trying  to  ex- 
press. But  when  we  listen  to  "My  Old  Kentucky  Home" 
or  "Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  we  are  satisfied  because  the 
words  give  us  the  idea  while  the  music  arouses  in  us  the 
appropriate  emotional  response. 

The  lyric,  then,  gives  us  the  idea  or  theme  and  calls 
up  appropriate  pictures  in  language  which  is  rich  in 
suggestion,  pictorial  power,  and  sensuous  beauty.  The 
melody  gives  the  poem  greater  expressiveness ;  and  it  does 
this  by  intensifying  the  emotion  and  adding  a  color  and 
a  richness  which  words  alone  cannot  impart.  Although 


THE  SONG  23 

Rouget  de  Lisle  wrote  both  words  and  air  for  the  "Mar- 
seillaise" and  Wagner  wrote  the  librettos  as  well  as  the 
music  of  his  operas,  usually  air  and  lyric  are  written  by 
different  persons.  Ordinarily  a  musician  like  Schubert 
composes  a  melody  for  a  poem  like  Shakespeare's  "Hark, 
Hark,  the  Lark,"  or  a  poet  like  Mrs.  Howe  writes  words 
for  a  well-known  melody,  as  she  did  in  "The  Battle  Hymn 
of  the  Republic."  In  every  case,  however,  the  poem  and 
the  air  must  blend  to  produce  a  harmonious  whole. 

There  are  more  perfect  melodies  and  far  greater  poems 
than  the  air  and  words  of  Stephen  Collins  Foster's  "Old 
Folks  at  Home" ;  but  in  few  other  songs  does  one  find  so 
perfect  a  harmony  between  the  two.  The  explanation  is 
that  Foster  wrote  both  words  and  music  for  his  songs. 
If  the  reader  will  read  "Old  Folks  at  Home"  as  a  poem, 
he  will  find  that  it  is  not  poetry  of  a  high  order ;  in  fact, 
without  the  music  the  words  seem  colorless  and  conven- 
tional. When  sung  to  the  melody,  however,  they  seem 
suddenly  to  have  become  alive,  full  of  unsuspected  color 
and  feeling. 


OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away, 
Dere's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber, 

Dere's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation 

Sadly  I  roam, 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 


24  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Chorus: 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Eberywhere  I  roam; 
Oh !  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered 

When  I  was  young, 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I ; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder! 

Dere  let  me  live  and  die. 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, 

One  dat  I  love, 
Still  sadly  to  my  memory  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-humming 

All  round  de  comb? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home? 

Stephen  Collins  Foster  (1826-1864) 


THE  SONG 


25 


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26 


INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 


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It  is  too  much  the  fashion  among  musicians  to  think 
of  the  words  of  a  song  as  comparatively  unimportant. 
No  mistake  could  be  greater ;  for,  as  Shakespeare  has  put 
it,  "Orpheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  sinews."  With- 
out the  words  the  air  would  seem  to  most  of  us  unsatisfy- 
ing and  pointless.  The  poem  not  only  gives  us  the  key 
to  the  emotion  which  the  music  arouses  ;  it  also  emphasizes 
it  in  every  possible  way.  The  theme  of  "Old  Folks  at 
Home"  is  the  wanderer's  longing  for  home  and  home  folks. 
Every  line  of  the  poem  calls  up  appropriate  pictures  of 
the  darkey's  home  and  relatives.  Our  emotions  are  at- 
tached to  persons  and  things,  and  it  is  the  part  of  the 
poet  to  picture  them  while  the  musician  stirs  our  feelings. 
Foster's  song  illustrates  perfectly  one  of  Irving  Berlin's 
eight  rules  for  writing  popular  songs:  "The  title,  which 
must  be  simple  and  easily  remembered,  must  be  'planted' 


28  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

effectively  in  the  song.  It  must  be  emphasized,  accented 
again  and  again,  throughout  verses  and  chorus.'* 

Foster's  songs  come  nearer  to  being  distinctively 
American  than  any  others  that  we  possess ;  but  in  reality 
we  have  none  that  compare  with  the  best  songs  of  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  and  Ireland.  Foster's  are  not,  strictly 
speaking,  negro  songs ;  for  the  dialect  is  imperfect  and 
negroes  seldom  sing  them.  The  airs,  nevertheless,  are 
genuinely  melodious  and  are  not  the  echoes  of  European 
music.  They  are,  however,  colored  by  the  sentimentality 
characteristic  of  much  of  our  music  and  poetry.  "The 
Old  Oaken  Bucket"  and  "A  Perfect  Day"  illustrate  this 
sentimental  strain  which  vitiates  many  otherwise  good 
songs. 

Genuine  negro  folk-song  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
our  parlor  and  vaudeville  songs  written  in  a  pseudo-negro 
dialect.  Most  of  the  old  negro  airs  are  no  longer  sung 
by  the  negroes  themselves,  who  now  unfortunately  prefer 
to  sing  the  latest  jazz  tunes.  Perhaps  the  best  of  the  old 
negro  camp-meeting  songs  is  "Swing  Low,  Sweet 
Chariot,"  the  melody  of  which  the  Bohemian  musician 
Dvorak  used  in  his  "New  World  Symphony.'* 

SWING  LOW,  SWEET  CHARIOT 

Swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home. 

I  looked  over  Jordan  and  what  did  I  see, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home? 
A  band  of  angels  comin'  aftah  me, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home. 


THE  SONG  29 

If  you  git  there  before  I  do, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home, 
Tell  all  my  frien's  I'm  a-comin',  too, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home. 

The  brightes'  day  that  ever  I  saw, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home, 
When  Jesus  washed  my  sins  away, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home. 

I'm  sometimes  up  an'  sometimes  down, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home, 
But  still  my  soul  feel  heavenly  boun', 
Coming  for  to  carry  me  home. 

From  the  art-song,  which  is  the  work  of  a  known  poet 
and  a  known  musician,  the  folk-song  differs  in  that  no 
one  knows  who  wrote  either  the  melody  or  the  words. 
The  folk-song,  although  in  many  instances  probably 
launched  by  an  individual  author,  has  been  handed  down 
by  tradition  until  it  has  come  to  be  the  fitting  expression 
of  the  spirit  of  a  race.  In  poetic  merit,  it  is,  of  course, 
inferior  to  the  art-song ;  but  its  sincerity  and  its  natural- 
ness are  inimitable. 

The  folk-song  is  the  ultimate  basis  of  both  modern 
music  and  modern  poetry.  "From  it,"  says  Mrs.  Wode- 
house  in  her  discussion  of  the  Song  in  Grove's  Dictionary 
of  Music,  "we  have  derived  not  only  our  scales,  but  the 
shape  of  our  melodies,  the  outlines  of  our  musical  form, 
and  indirectly  the  art  of  harmony  and  cadences."  It 
follows  that,  as  she  points  out,  America  has  "no  distinc- 
tive characteristics  of  her  own  in  music.  .  .  .  Deprived 
as  it  has  been  of  its  natural  foundation,  t.  e.,  the  folk- 
song, her  national  music  must  be  formed  on  the  indi- 


30  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

viduality  of  her  composers."  Mrs.  Wodehouse  might 
have  added  with  equal  truth  that  American  poetry  has 
too  often  been  feeble  and  imitative  because  it  has  little 
basis  in  native  folk-lore  apart  from  that  of  the  negro 
and  the  Indian. 

When  poetry  and  music  emerge  from  the  twilight 
obscurity  of  prehistoric  times,  they  are  practically  always 
found  together.  Among  present-day  savages,  who  pre- 
serve for  us  the  chief  clues  to  the  origin  of  music  and 
poetry,  the  two  arts  are  still  united.  It  is  believed  by 
most  authorities  that  both  poetry  and  music  evolved  from 
the  dance,  which  is  intimately  related  to  primitive  poetry 
and  music.  Rhythm  is  the  element  which  unites  these 
three  arts,  as  form  is  the  element  common  to  painting, 
sculpture,  and  architecture. 

The  debt  of  modern  poetry  to  the  folk-song  is  clearly 
seen  in  the  songs  of  Robert  Burns,  the  greatest  of  all 
song-writers.  Even  before  the  time  of  Burns,  Scotland 
Sad  not  only  an  almost  unrivaled  wealth  of  beautiful  folk- 
nelodies  but  a  widespread  interest  in  song.  This  folk- 
music  preserves  the  humor  and  pathos  of  thousands  of 
long  dead  singers.  During  the  Reformation  the  singing 
of  these  songs  was  forbidden  by  the  clergy;  but  they 
continued  to  be  sung  in  secret.  At  merry-makings  when 
no  minister  was  present,  "the  wee  sinfu'  fiddle"  was 
brought  out  and  the  old  songs  were  sung.  By  the  begin- 
ning of  the  eighteenth  century,  though  the  airs  were  as 
beautiful  as  ever,  the  words  had  nearly  all  become  corrupt 
and  often  indecent.  It  was  the  task  of  Burns  and  other 
Scottish  poets  to  fit  to  the  old  airs  equally  beautiful  and 
appropriate  poems. 


THE  SONG  31 

With  Burns,  the  poem  grew  directly  out  of  the  melody. 
He  thus  described  his  method  of  composition:  "Until  I 
am  complete  master  of  a  tune  in  my  own  singing  (such 
as  it  is),  I  can  never  compose  to  it.  My  way  is:  I  con- 
sider the  poetic  sentiment  corresponding  to  my  idea  of 
the  musical  expression,  then  choose  my  theme,  begin  one 
stanza,  and  when  that  is  composed,  which  is  generally 
the  most  difficult  part  of  the  business,  I  walk  out,  sit 
down  now  and  then,  look  out  for  objects  of  nature  around 
me  that  are  in  unison  and  harmony  .  .  .  humming  every 
now  and  then  the  air  with  the  verses  I  have  composed. 
When  I  feel  my  muse  beginning  to  jade,  I  retire  to  the 
solitary  fireside  of  my  study,  and  there  commit  my  effu- 
sions to  paper,  swinging  at  intervals  on  the  hind  legs  of 
my  elbow  chair  by  way  of  calling  forth  my  own  critical 
strictures  as  my  pen  goes  on."  In  "Afton  Water"  Burns 
has  thus  wedded  appropriate  words  to  an  old  air.  The 
Mary  in  whose  honor  the  song  was  written  seems  not  to 
have  been  the  famous  Highland  Mary.  A  brae  is  a  hill- 
side facing  a  stream ;  birk  is  Scots  for  birch. 

AFTON  WATER 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen, 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 


32  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding  rills; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodland  the  primroses  blow; 
There  oft  as  mild  Ev'ning  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 
Robert  Burns  (1759-1796} 

The  Scottish  dialect  will  give  the  reader  little  difficulty 
if  he  will  observe  certain  simple  rules.  English  o  is 
usually  represented  by  Scottish  a,  ai,  or  aw,  as  in  amang, 
baith^  and  auld.  K  is  often  found  where  English  has  ch, 
as  in  birk  and  kirk,  for  birch  and  church.  Certain  con- 
sonants are  frequently  omitted  in  Scots,  especially  I  and 
v,  as  in  fa'  and  gi'e. 

Although  all  of  Burns's  songs  are  written  to  old  airs, 
some  of  them,  like  "Afton  Water"  and  "Highland  Mary,'* 
are  original  poems.  More  often,  however,  Burns  is  found 
revising  the  words  of  a  folk-song.  Sometimes  his  changes 
are  few;  more  often  he  recasts  the  entire  poem.  An 
excellent  example  of  his  revision  is  to  be  seen  in  "Auld 


THE  SONG  33 

Lang  Syne,"  which  is  perhaps  the  most  widely  known 
song  in  the  language.  Strangely  enough,  though  the  air 
we  now  sing  fits  the  poem  well,  it  is  not  the  one  for  which 
it  was  written.  Burns  is  here  trying  to  express  the  feel- 
ing of  friendship.  Imagine  two  old  friends  meeting  after 
many  years  to  talk  over  old  times — auld  lang  syne  means 
old  times,  but  it  is  more  expressive  than  the  English 
phrase.  The  first  two  lines  in  the  second  stanza  mean 
I'll  pay  for  my  drink  and  you  for  yours ;  or,  in  modern 
slang,  "We'll  go  Dutch."  Gowans  means  daisies ;  burn, 
brook;  fiere,  comrade;  a  right  guid-willie  waught,  a 
friendly  drink. 

AULD  LANG  SYNE 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 

And  never  brought  to  min'? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 

And  auld  lang  syne? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine; 
And  we'll  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  ha'e  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine; 
But  we've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 


34  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

We  twa  ha'e  paidled  i'  the  burn, 

From  morning  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  ha'e  roar'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gi'e's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
And  we'll  tak'  a  right  guid-willie  waught, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

Robert  Burns  (1759-1796} 

Love  songs  are  perhaps  the  best  and  certainly  the  mosl 
popular  of  all  songs.  In  this  field  Burns  is  supreme. 
American  poetry,  to  our  great  discredit  be  it  said,  has 
hardly  a  single  great  love  lyric.  The  best  known  of  all 
Scottish  love  songs  is  "Annie  Laurie."  The  poem  was 
originally  written  by  Annie  Laurie's  lover,  William  Doug- 
las; but  it  was  given  its  final  form  by  Lady  John  Scott, 
to  whom  the  air  also  has  been  ascribed. 

ANNIE  LAURIE 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie, 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew; 
An'  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true ; 
Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  sail  be; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift, 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan, 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on; 


THE  SONG  35 

That  e'er   the   sun   shone   on — 

An'  dark  blue  is  her  e'e; 
An'  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet; 
Like  simmer  breezes  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  an'  sweet; 
Her  voice  is  low  an'  sweet — 

An'  she's  a'  the  world  to  me; 
An'  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lay  me  doun  and  dee. 

William  Douglas  and  Lady  John  Scott 

Here  we  may  pause  to  note  how  poems  written  to  be 
sung  differ  from  poems  intended  only  to  be  read.  The 
song  must  be  simple  and  short.  The  metrical  scheme 
must  be  simple  and  regular ;  free  verse  and  prose  are  much 
more  difficult  to  set  to  music,  although  many  of  the 
Psalms  and  some  of  Whitman's  poems  have  been  sung. 
The  lines  of  a  song  should  be  end-stopped;  that  is,  the 
pauses  should  come  at  the  end.  The  lines  of  the  poem 
should  be  of  such  length  that  one  musical  phrase  will 
correspond  exactly  to  one  line  or  a  group  of  lines.  The 
poet  and  the  musician  should  stress  the  same  syllables, 
as  Foster  does  in  "Old  Folks  at  Home."  Composers  too 
often  stress  unimportant  words  like  an,  the,  by,  and  shall. 
Above  all,  the  words  must  be  singable.  Imagine  yourself 
trying  to  sing  Browning's  line, 

Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  array! 

The  liquids,  I,  m,  n,  ng,  r,  are  easiest  to  sing.    The  singer 
dislikes  especially  the  hissing  sounds,  s,  sh,  and  ch,  which 


36 

are  common  in  English  and  German.  It  is  by  no  means 
true,  however,  that  the  English  language  is  poorly 
adapted  to  singing.  The  vowel  sounds  require  careful  at- 
tention on  the  part  of  poet  and  composer.  The  open  vowel 
sounds,  such  as  a  in  father,  i  in  time,  ow  in  down,  e  in 
ever,  are  preferable  to  the  close  sounds  of  u  in  full,  oo  in 
woo,  and  ee  in  meet.  The  open  vowels  are  easier  for  the 
singer  to  sustain  and  increase  in  volume.  For  this  reason 
singers  prefer  the  less  common  pronunciation  of  the  noun 
wind,  riming  it  with  blind  rather  than  with  thinned. 

Some  of  the  most  beautiful  songs  in  English  were  writ- 
ten by  the  dramatic  poets  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time. 
Many  of  the  Elizabethan  actors  had  sung  in  church  choirs 
before  going  on  the  stage.  Shakespeare's  plays  are  full 
of  lovely  little  lyrics,  such  as  "O  Mistress  Mine,"  "Under 
the  Greenwood  Tree,"  and  "Tell  me  Where  is  Fancy 
Bred."  Perhaps  the  best  of  all  his  songs  is  "Hark,  Hark, 
the  Lark,"  which  in  Cymbeline  is  sung  at  dawn  by  a  lover 
just  outside  his  sweetheart's  door.  If  this  song  has  any 
defect,  it  is  Shakespeare's  partiality  to  s's.  The  poem 
has  been  admirably  set  to  music  by  Schubert,  whom  Liszt 
described  as  "the  most  poetical  musician  that  ever  wrote." 


HARK,  HARK,  THE  LARK 

Hark !  hark !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 


THE  SONG  37 

With  everything  that  pretty  is, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise: 
Arise,  arise. 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616") 

Shakespeare's  friend  and  fellow-dramatist,  Ben  Jonson, 
wrote  many  beautiful  songs.  The  only  one  which  is  now 
widely  known  is  his  "Song  to  Celia."  The  second  stanza, 
which  is  hardly  in  keeping  with  the  first,  is  marred  by  a 
"conceit,"  a  far-fetched  figure  of  speech  which  the  Eliza- 
bethans admired. 

SONG  TO  CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sip, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

Ben  Jonson  (1573-1637) 

Thomas  Moore,  the  Irish  poet,  tried  to  do  for  his 
country  what  Burns  had  done  for  Scotland.  His  songs 


38  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

are  melodious  and  pretty,  but  they  are  too  sentimental 
and  artificial;  they  belong  to  the  English  parlor,  not  to 
the  Irish  countryside.  Though  written  for  old  Irish  airs, 
the  lyrics  are  not  genuinely  Irish.  Some  of  them,  how- 
ever, such  as  "The  Last  Rose  of  Summer"  and  "Oft  in 
the  Stilly  Night,"  are  still  well  known. 


BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEARING 
YOUNG  CHARMS 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will; 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would!  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  may  be  known 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear; 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god  when  he  sets 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose. 
Thomas  Moore  (1779-1852) 

Many  of  the  old  airs  are  best  known  today  as  college 
songs.  "Fair  Harvard,"  perhaps  the  best  American  rep- 
resentative of  this  type,  is  sung  to  the  air  of  "Believe  me 
if  All  those  Endearing  Young  Charms."  It  is  adapted 


THE  SONG  39 

to  formal  occasions  like  commencements  and  alumni  re- 
unions, not  to  athletic  rallies  and  contests. 


FAIR  HARVARD 

Fair  Harvard!  thy  sons  to  thy  jubilee  throng 

And  with  blessings  surrender  thee  o'er, 
By  these  festival  rites,  from  the  age  that  is  past 

To  the  age  that  is  waiting  before. 
O  relic  and  type  of  our  ancestors'  worth 

That  has  long  kept  their  memory  warm, 
First  flower  of  their  wilderness,  star  of  their  night, 

Calm  rising  through  change  and  through  storm. 

To  thy  bowers  we  were  led  in  the  bloom  of  our  youth 

From  the  home  of  our  infantile  years, 
When  our  fathers  had  warned,  and  our  mothers  had  prayed, 

And  our  sisters  had  blest,  through  their  tears ! 
Thou  then  wert  our  parent,  the  nurse  of  our  souls; 

We  were  moulded  to  manhood  by  thee, 
Till  freighted  with  treasure-thoughts,  friendships,  and  hopes, 

Thou  didst  launch  us  on  Destiny's  sea. 

When,  as  pilgrims,  we  come,  to  revisit  thy  halls, 

To  what  kindlings  the  season  gives  birth ! 
Thy  shades  are  most  soothing,  thy  sunlight  more  dear, 

Than  descend  on  less  privileged  earth ; 
For  the  good  and  the  great  in  their  beautiful  prime 

Through  thy  precincts  have  musingly  trod 
As  they  guided  their  spirits  or  deepened  the  streams 

That  make  glad  the  fair  city  of  God. 

Farewell,  be  thy  destinies  onward  and  bright! 
To  thy  children  the  lesson  still  give 


40  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

With  freedom  to  think,  and  with  patience  to  bear, 

And  for  right  ever  bravely  to  live. 
Let  not  moss-covered  error  moor  thee  at  its  side 

As  the  world  on  truth's  current  glides  by; 
Be  the  herald  of  light  and  the  bearer  of  love 

Till  the  stock  of  the  Puritans  die! 

Rev.  Samuel  Gilman   (1791-1858} 

The  hymn  is  probably  the  one  kind  of  song  which  has 
lost  nothing  of  its  original  importance  in  an  age  when 
poems  are  coming  more  and  more  to  be  read  rather  than 
sung.  Yet,  although  there  are  a  few  hymns  of  great 
poetic  beauty,  it  is  a  strange  fact,  admitted  by  every 
one,  that  most  hymns  have  no  poetic  merit.  This  is 
partly  explained  by  the  fact  that  most  hymns  are  writ- 
ten not  by  poets,  but  by  ministers,  who  are  naturally  more 
concerned  with  the  teaching  of  a  moral  than  with  the 
poetic  expression  of  a  great  emotion.  We  should  also 
remember  that  while  inferior  secular  songs  die  a  natural 
death,  thousands  of  poor  hymns  are  preserved  in  the 
hymnals.  The  great  hymn  is  usually  the  product  of  a 
religious  awakening  such  as  that  led  by  Whitefield  and 
the  Wesley  brothers  in  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
greatest  hymn  of  modern  times,  it  seems  to  us,  is  Cardi- 
nal Newman's  "Lead,  Kindly  Light."  The  hymn  reflects 
the  doubt  and  gloom  through  which  Newman,  the  leader 
of  the  Oxford  Movement,  passed  before  he  attained  faith 
and  peace.  The  only  serious  defect  in  the  poem  when 
judged  as  a  song  is  that  there  are  too  many  "run-on" 
lines ;  there  ought  to  be  a  pause  at  the  end  of  each 
line. 


THE  SONG  41 

LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT 

Lead,  kindly  light,  amid  th'  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home; 

Lead  thou  me  on ! 

Keep  thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now 

Lead  thou  me  on ! 

I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will.    Remember  not  past  years ! 

So  long  thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone, 

And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile, 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile ! 
John  Henry  Newman  (1801-1890) 

Unlike  the  love  song,  the  patriotic  song  is  not  the 
expression  of  the  emotion  of  a  single  individual;  like  the 
hymn,  it  is  the  expression  of  the  feeling  of  the  crowd. 
Just  as  most  hymns  are  written  during  a  time  of  strong 
religious  feeling,  so  most  patriotic  songs  are  written  in 
war-time ;  for  it  is  war,  not  peace,  which  calls  out  the 
passionate  love  of  country.  The  great  national  song 
cannot  be  made  to  order;  it  must  await  the  conjunction 
of  the  man  and  the  hour,  and,  curiously  enough,  it  is 


42  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

almost  never  the  work  of  a  great  poet.  Great  writers 
like  Wordsworth  and  Milton  stand  too  far  apart  from 
the  crowd  to  write  representative  national  songs.  Who 
can  recall  off-hand  the  authors  of  "America,"  "The 
Watch  on  the  Rhine,'*  and  "Dixie"? 

The  American  national  anthem,  "The  Star-Spangled 
Banner,"  was  written  not  by  a  Foe,  a  Longfellow,  or  a 
Whitman,  but  by  a  Baltimore  lawyer  named  Francis  Scott 
Key,  who  is  known  for  nothing  else.  The  poem  was  writ- 
ten during  the  bombardment  of  Fort  McHenry  by  the 
British  in  1814.  Key,  who  had  gone  aboard  the  British 
fleet  under  a  flag  of  truce  to  see  a  friend,  was  detained, 
and  thus  came  to  witness  the  bombardment  during  the 
night.  In  the  morning  he  looked  anxiously  to  see  if  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  was  still  waving.  Key  wrote  the  poem 
immediately  and  set  it  to  an  English  air,  "To  Anacreon 
in  Heaven."  Both  the  air  and  the  poem  are  difficult  to 
sing ;  for  the  music  has  a  wider  compass  than  the  average 
voice,  and  the  lines  are  full  of  heavy  unstressed  syllables 
and  difficult  combinations  of  consonants. 

THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming? 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  thro'  the  clouds  of  the 
fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  streaming? 
And  the  rockets'  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 

Gave  proof  thro'  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there; 
Oh,  say,  does  that  Star-Spangled  banner  yet  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 


THE  SONG  43 

Chorus  : 

Oh,  say,  does  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  thro'  the  mists  of  the  deep, 

Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  in  the  stream; 
"Tis  the  Star-Spangled  banner;  oh,  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 


, 
And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 

Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  they'd  leave  us  no  more? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave; 
And  the  Star-Spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh  !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home,  and  the  war's  desolation  ! 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heav'n-rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "In  God  is  our  trust!" 
And  the  Star-Spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Francis  Scott  Key   (1780-1843) 

"America"  was  written  in  1832  by  Samuel  Francis 
Smith,  a  Baptist  minister  and  a  classmate  at  Harvard  of 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  Until  after  he  had  written  the 


44  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

lyric,  Smith  did  not  know  that  he  had  composed  it  to 
the  air  of  the  English  anthem,  "God  Save  the  King." 
The  tune,  however,  is  not  certainly  of  English  origin. 
The  words  of  "God  Save  the  King,"  and  often  the  air  as 
well,  have  been  attributed  to  Henry  Carey,  who  is  sup- 
posed to  have  written  the  song  about  1740. 

AMERICA 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  Land  of  Liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  Freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free, — 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills, 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees, 

Sweet  Freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  Liberty, 
To  Thee  I  sing; 


THE  SONG  45 

Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  Freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 
Great  God,  our  King. 

Samuel  Francis  Smith  (1808-1895) 


GOD  SAVE  THE  KING 

God  save  our  gracious  King ! 
Long  live  our  noble  King! 

God  save  the  King! 
Send  him  victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious, 
Long  to  reign  over  us ! 

God  save  the  King! 

O  Lord  our  God,  arise! 
Scatter  his  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall; 
Confound  their  politics, 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks: 
On  Thee  our  hopes  we  fix — 

God  save  us  all ! 

Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store 
On  him  be  pleased  to  pour; 

Long  may  he  reign ! 
May  he  defend  our  laws, 
And  ever  give  us  cause 
To  sing  with  heart  and  voice 

God  save  the  King! 

Henry  Carey   ?      (d. 

The  best  American  national   songs   date  from  about 
the  time  of  the  Civil  War,  the  one  great  crisis  which  has 


46 

stirred  the  nation  to  its  depths.  The  words  of  most  of 
the  songs  which  the  soldiers  preferred  have  little  merit 
beyond  sincerity  of  feeling.  "Dixie,"  the  Confederate 
favorite,  was  written  for  a  negro  minstrel  show,  on  one 
Sunday  in  1859  by  an  Ohioan,  Dan  Emmett.  The  words, 
like  those  of  "Yankee  Doodle,"  are  trivial;  but  the  more 
poetic  version  of  General  Pike,  "Southrons,  Hear  Your 
Country  Call  You,"  never  became  popular  with  the  sol- 
diers. A  Harvard  professor  of  music  has  referred  to 
"Dixie"  as  the  best  and  most  truly  American  of  all  our 
national  airs.  "Dixie"  is  as  popular  in  the  North  as  in 
the  South ;  we  respond  to  it  as  we  do  to  no  other  patriotic 
air. 

The  Northern  soldier's  favorite,  "John  Brown's  Body," 
is  sung  to  an  old  negro  camp-meeting  tune.  Since  the 
authorship  is  still  in  dispute,  it  seems  best  to  class  "John 
Brown's  Body"  as  a  folk-song;  the  merits  of  the  words 
are  the  merits  of  folk  poetry — simplicity,  naturalness, 
and  directness. 

JOHN  BROWN'S  BODY 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the  grave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on ! 

Chorus : 

Glory!  Glory  Hallelujah! 
Glory !  Glory  Halleluj  ah  ! 
Glory!  Glory  Hallelujah! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 


THE  SONG  47 

He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord ! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back. 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
And  they'll  go  marching  on. 

They'll  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  sour  apple  tree, 
As  they  go  marching  on. 

Now  for  the  Union  let's  give  three  rousing  cheers, 
As  we  go  marching  on. 

Hip,  hip,  hip,  hip,  Hurrah! 

Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe's  poem,  "The  Battle  Hymn  of 
the  Republic,"  resulted  from  an  attempt  to  fit  more  ele- 
vated words  to  the  tune  of  "John  Brown's  Body,"  which 
is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  best  of  our  military  airs.  She 
wrote  the  poem  one  night  in  December,  1861,  after  a  visit 
to  McClellan's  army.  The  leading  idea  in  the  poem, 
according  to  Mrs.  Howe,  is  "the  sacredness  of  human  lib- 
erty." "The  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic"  differs  from 
the  great  majority  of  the  war  poems,  "My  Maryland," 
for  instance,  in  the  almost  complete  absence  of  sectional 
bitterness.  It  has  the  permanent  quality  which  makes  it 
appropriate  to  every  struggle  for  human  liberty.  "The 
music  made  the  words  of  'John  Brown's  Body'  famous," 
says  Colonel  Nicholas  Smith,  "but  Mrs.  Howe's  match- 
less battle  song  has  made  the  melody  immortal."  In  her 
poem  the  song,  originally  a  hymn,  has  become  a  hymn 
again,  a  great  religious  processional. 


48  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

THE  BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath 

are  stored; 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift  sword: 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps ; 
I  have  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel: 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall 

deal; 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  His  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment-seat: 
Oh!  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him,  be  jubilant,  my  feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me: 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe  (1819-1910} 

The  "Marseillaise  of  the  Confederacy,"  "My  Mary- 
land," now,  after  "My  Old  Kentucky  Home,"  the  best 
known  of  our  state  songs,  was  written  in  April,  1861,  by 
James  Ryder  Randall.  While  teaching  in  Poydras  Col- 
lege in  Louisiana,  Randall  read  an  account  of  an  attack 


THE  SONG  49 

upon  some  Union  troops  in  his  native  city  of  Baltimore. 
The  poem  was  written  in  much  the  same  way  as  "The 
Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  as  one  may  see  from 
Randall's  own  account  of  its  composition:  "I  had  long 
been  absent  from  my  native  city,  and  the  startling  event 
there  inflamed  my  mind.  That  night  I  could  not  sleep, 
for  my  nerves  were  all  unstrung,  and  I  could  not  dis- 
miss what  I  read  in  the  paper  from  my  mind.  About 
midnight  I  rose,  lit  a  candle,  and  went  to  my  desk.  Some 
powerful  spirit  appeared  to  possess  me,  and  almost  invol- 
untarily I  proceeded  to  write  the  song  of  'My  Maryland.' 
I  remember  that  the  idea  appeared  to  first  take  shape  as 
music  in  the  brain — some  wild  air  that  I  cannot  now 
recall.  The  whole  poem  was  dashed  off  rapidly  when 
once  begun.  It  was  not  composed  in  cold  blood,  but 
under  what  may  be  called  a  conflagration  of  the  senses, 
if  not  an  inspiration  of  the  intellect." 

The  poem,  in  fact,  has  a  superb  fire  and  power, — to 
which  the  air  scarcely  does  justice, — that  make  it  worthy 
of  comparison  with  Bruce's  "Bannockburn"  and  Camp- 
bell's "Ye  Mariners  of  England."  Two  Baltimore  girls, 
Jennie  and  Hetty  Gary,  adapted  the  poem  to  an  old 
German  air,  then  popular  as  a  Yale  song  under  the  title 
of  "Lauriger  Horatius."  Stanzas  three  and  four  call 
the  roll  of  famous  Marylanders  who  had  borne  a  dis- 
tinguished part  in  earlier  wars.  Sic  semper,  in  the  sixth 
stanza,  is  part  of  the  motto  of  the  state  of  Virginia,  Sic 
Semper  Tyrannis,  "Thus  always  to  tyrants." 


50  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 


MY  MARYLAND 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


THE  SONG  51 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, — 
"Sic  semper!"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  again, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 


52  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb; 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She   breathes !     She   burns !     She'll    come !    She'll 


come 


Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
James  Ryder  Randall  (1839-1908) 

Nothing  is  stranger  than  the  migrations  of  patriotic 
airs.  Both  "America"  and  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner" 
were  written  for  English  airs.  "Dixie"  was  written  by 
a  Northerner.  Foster,  the  most  famous  author  of  negro 
songs,  was  born  in  Pennsylvania.  The  air  of  "John 
Brown's  Body"  and  "The  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic" 
was  originally  Southern.  The  English  poet,  William 
Morris,  borrowed  this  tune  for  his  "March  of  the 
Workers."  At  the  close  of  the  Civil  War  Lincoln  asked 
a  band  to  play  "Dixie,"  and  said,  "As  we  have  captured 
the  Confederate  army,  we  have  also  captured  the  Con- 
federate tune,  and  both  belong  to  us."  In  other  words, 
as  Brander  Matthews  puts  it,  "In  the  hour  of  battle  a 
war-tune  is  subject  to  the  right  of  capture,  and,  like  the 
cannon  taken  from  the  enemy,  it  is  turned  against  its 
maker." 

Although  songs  are  too  various  to  permit  a  discussion 
here  of  all  the  types,  some  further  examples  are  neces- 
sary to  illustrate  the  rare  excellence  of  the  form.  One  of 
the  best  of  recent  songs  is  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's 
"Requiem,"  which  has  been  set  to  music  by  Sidney  Homer. 


THE  SONG  53 

REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did   I   live   and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  "where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1850-1894~) 

Another  superb  song,  of  a  different  kind,  is  Kipling's 
"The  Gipsy  Trail,"  which  has  been  widely  sung  to  an 
air  by  Tod  B.  Galloway.  Romany  means  gipsy;  gorgio, 
one  who  is  not  a  gipsy ;  Austral,  southern. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

The  white  moth  to  the  closing  bine, 

The  bee  to  the  opened  clover, 
And  the  gipsy  blood  to  the  gipsy  blood 

Ever  the  wide  world  over. 

Ever  the  wide  world  over,  lass, 

Ever  the  trail  held  true, 
Over  the  world  and  under  the  world, 

And  back  at  the  last  to  you. 

Out  of  the  dark  of  the  gorgio  camp, 
Out  of  the  grime  and  the  gray 

(Morning  waits  at  the  end  of  the  world), 
Gipsy,  come  away! 


54  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  wild  boar  to  the  sun-dried  swamp, 

The  red  crane  to  her  reed, 
And  the  Romany  lass  to  the  Romany  lad 

By  the  tie  of  a  roving  breed. 

The  pied  snake  to  the  rifted  rock, 

The  buck  to  the  stony  plain, 
And  the  Romany  lass  to  the  Romany  lad, 

And  both  to  the  road  again. 

Both  to  the  road  again,  again ! 

Out  on  a  clean  sea-track — 
Follow  the  cross  of  the  gipsy  trail 

Over  the  world  and  back! 

Follow  the  Romany  patteran 
North  where  the  blue  bergs  sail, 

And  the  bows  are  gray  with  the  frozen  spray, 
And  the  masts  are  shod  with  mail. 


Follow  the  Romany  patteran 

Sheer  to  the  Austral  Light, 
Where  the  besom  of  God  is  the  wild  South  wind, 

Sweeping  the  sea-floors  white. 

Follow  the  Romany  patteran 

West  to  the  sinking  sun, 
Till  the  junk-sails  lift  through  the  houseless  drift, 

And  the  east  and  the  west  are  one. 


Follow  the  Romany  patteran 
East  where  the  silence  broods 

By  a  purple  wave  on  an  opal  beach 
In  the  hush  of  the  Mahim  woods. 


THE  SONG  55 

"The  wild  hawk  to  the  wind-swept  sky, 

The  deer  to  the  wholesome  wold 
And  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old." 

The  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid — 

Light  of  my  tents,  be  fleet. 
Morning  waits  at  the  end  of  the  world, 

And  the  world  is  all  at  our  feet! 

Rudyard  Kipling  (1865-  ) 

Up  to  this  point  we  have  included  only  lyrics  which 
are  still  sung  to  familiar  melodies.  There  are,  however, 
a  very  large  number  of  poems  which  were  written  for  airs 
that  are  now  forgotten.  These  songs  we  must  judge 
solely  as  poetry.  The  Scotch  know  Burns's  immortal 
"John  Anderson"  as  a  song,  but  the  rest  of  us  know  it 
only  as  a  poem.  Unlike  most  songs,  it  has  sufficient  poetic 
merit  to  enable  it  to  dispense  with  the  air.  It  is  a  love 
song  of  somewhat  the  same  type  as  "Believe  Me  If  All 
Those  Endearing  Young  Charms"  and  "Silver  Threads 
among  the  Gold" ;  but  it  is  incomparably  greater  poetry, 
and  it  has  not  the  slightest  trace  of  the  false  sentiment 
which  mars  these  popular  songs.  Jo  means  sweetheart; 
acquent,  acquainted;  brent,  smooth,  unwrinkled;  beld, 
bald ;  pow,  head ;  canty,  cheerful,  happy. 

JOHN  ANDERSON 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 


56  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

And  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

Robert  Burns  (1759-1796} 

Emerson's  "Concord  Hymn,"  one  of  the  finest  of  Ameri- 
can patriotic  lyrics,  was  sung  in  1837  at  the  completion 
of  the  monument  erected  in  memory  of  the  soldiers  killed 
at  Concord  Bridge  in  the  first  fighting  of  the  Revolution. 
Few  poems  written  for  special  occasions  have  attained 
the  apparent  immortality  which  has  come  to  this  song. 


CONCORD  HYMN 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  that  seaward  creeps. 


THE  SONG  -51 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882) 


When  a  nation  passes  out  of  the  more  primitive  stages 
of  civilization,  the  connection  between  music  and  poetry 
becomes  less  and  less  intimate.  Poems  gradually  cease 
to  be  sung,  although  for  a  time  they  are  chanted  much 
as  a  negro  preacher  of  the  old  school  chants  his  sermons. 
Finally,  poems  come  simply  to  be  spoken  or  read  much 
as  we  read  prose.  The  vast  majority  of  poems  written 
today  are  written  with  no  thought  of  a  musical  accom- 
paniment ;  and  the  longer,  more  ambitious  forms  of  music, 
such  as  the  sonata  and  the  symphony,  have  no  words  to 
accompany  them.  Even  yet,  however,  the  original  con- 
nection between  music  and  poetry  is  kept  up  in  hymns, 
popular  songs,  musical  comedies,  and  operas.  Further- 
more, all  poets  from  Homer  to  Kipling,  according  to 
William  Butler  Yeats,  chant  their  poems  when  they  read 
them  aloud. 

Both  loss  and  gain  for  each  art  result  from  this  divorce 
of  music  and  poetry.  Music  gains  immensely  in  freedom 
and  range.  Later  music  attempts  sometimes  to  rival 
poetry  even  in  imparting  ideas ;  just  how  successfully 
musicians  do  not  always  agree.  In  the  Overture  to 


58  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

William  Tell  Rossini  describes  a  storm  on  a  lake  so 
clearly  that  one  hardly  feels  the  need  of  words.  A  great 
deal  of  later  music,  however,  is  intelligible  only  to  trained 
musicians ;  and  music,  at  least  of  the  best  kind,  is  no 
longer  the  possession  of  the  whole  people. 

For  poetry  also  there  is  both  loss  and  gain.  Let  us 
first  consider  the  loss  side  of  the  ledger.  When  poetry 
ceases  to  be  sung,  it  loses  its  appeal  to  many  readers, 
who,  missing  the  musical  accompaniment,  find  the  poem 
cold  and  dull.  Thus  poetry,  like  music,  ceases  to  be  the 
possession  of  the  whole  people  and  becomes  the  property 
of  a  class.  Later  poetry  often  lacks  the  spontaneity, 
simplicity,  and  sincerity  of  the  folk-song.  The  work  of 
the  great  poets  frequently  requires  too  much  culture  and 
too  great  a  knowledge  of  technique  to  be  readily  under- 
stood. The  ode  and  the  sonnet  lack  the  warmth  and  the 
color  of  the  song.  The  poet  who  uses  the  more  complex 
forms  often  writes  of  themes  remote  from  the  average 
man  and  woman;  and,  instead  of  depicting  the  great 
simple  passions  of  mankind,  he  tries  too  often  to  express 
the  subtler  and  less  universal  emotions.  The  language 
of  poetry  often  becomes  artificial,  and  sometimes  ceases 
to  be  a  spoken  language  at  all.  Poems  come  to  be  writ- 
ten for  the  eye,  not  for  the  ear.  Even  the  rimes,  as  often 
with  Tennyson,  are  meant  for  the  eye  alone. 

But  in  poetry,  as  in  music,  the  gain  is  far  greater  than 
the  loss.  "The  Ode  to  a  Nightingale"  and  "The  Moon- 
light Sonata"  are  greater  works  of  art  than  "Highland 
Mary"  and  "Annie  Laurie."  In  meter,  in  language,  in 
ideas,  even  in  emotions,  the  range  of  the  song  is  narrow 
when  compared  with  other  forms  of  poetry.  The  later 


THE  SONG  59 

poet,  writing  merely  to  be  read,  finds  open  to  him  many 
new  fields.  Being  no  longer  limited  to  the  song  and  the 
ballad,  he  is  free  to  cultivate  the  longer  narrative,  dra- 
matic, and  reflective  forms.  He  gives  a  stronger  empha- 
sis to  both  form  and  content.  After  all,  however,  other 
forms  of  poetry  are,  when  compared  with  the  song,  essen- 
tially less  poetic  and  nearer  the  level  of  prose,  for  the 
singing  quality  is  of  the  very  essence  of  poetry. 

Poetry,  when  divorced  from  music,  develops  a  kind  of 
music  of  its  own.  Human  speech  as  well  as  music  has  its 
own  peculiar  melody  and  rhythm.  "Speech-tunes,"  as 
Sidney  Lanier  called  them,  are  almost  impossible  to  write 
down  in  any  musical  scale  because  of  the  minute  differ- 
ences in  pitch  and  time;  but  they  are  of  the  greatest  im- 
portance for  the  poet.  Lord  Houghton  tells  us  that  "one 
of  Keats's  favorite  topics  of  conversation  was  the  prin- 
ciple of  melody  in  verse,  which  he  believed  to  consist  in 
the  adroit  management  of  open  and  close  vowels.  He 
had  a  theory  that  vowels  could  be  as  skilfully  combined 
and  interchanged  as  differing  notes  of  music  and  that  all 
sense  of  monotony  was  to  be  avoided  except  when  ex- 
pressive of  a  special  purpose."  A  stanza  from  Keats's 
"Ode  to  a  Nightingale"  furnishes  an  almost  perfect  illus- 
tration of  his  theory. 


Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down: 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 


60  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn: 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

With  this  superb  example  of  word  melody,  compare  some 
intentionally  unmusical  lines  written  by  Lanier  to  show 
the  effect  of  monotony  in  vowel  sounds, 

'Tis  May-day  gay:  wide-smiling  skies  shine  bright 
Through  whose  true  blue  cuckoos  do  woo  anew 
The  tender  spring,  etc. 

A  study  of  the  most  musical  English  and  American 
poets — Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Coleridge,  Shelley, 
Keats,  Tennyson,  Swinburne,  Yeats,  Foe,  and  Lanier — 
will  teach  one  much  about  this  word  music  in  poetry. 
The  skilful  poet  uses  all  the  resources  at  his  command, 
rime,  alliteration,  assonance,  onomatopoeia ;  and  he  varies 
his  stresses,  his  pauses,  and  the  length  and  the  rhythm 
of  his  lines. 

How  this  word  melody  of  the  poet  differs  from  that  of 
the  song  will  be  evident  from  the  following  quotation  from 
an  English  critic,  John  Addington  Symonds:  "I  once 
asked  an  eminent  musician,  the  late  Madame  Goldschmidt, 
why  Shelley's  lyrics  were  ill-adapted  to  music.  She  made 
me  read  aloud  to  her  the  Song  of  Pan  and  those  lovely 
lines  To  the  [sic]  Night,  'Swiftly  walk  over  the  western 
wave,  Spirit  of  Night !'  Then  she  pointed  out  how  the 
verbal  melody  was  intended  to  be  self-sufficing  in  these 
lyrics,  how  full  of  complicated  thoughts  and  changeful 
images  the  verse  is,  how  packed  with  consonants  the 
words  are,  how  the  tone  of  the  emotion  alters,  and  how 


THE  SONG  61 

no  one  melodic  phrase  could  be  found  to  fit  the  daedal  woof 
of  the  poetic  emotion." 

TO  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  thy  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long  sought! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 
Wouldst  thou  me? — And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee! 


62  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (1792-1822) 

Although  Tennyson's  subject  matter  is  often  common- 
place, no  later  poet  has  surpassed  him  in  poetic  music. 
His  "Crossing  the  Bar"  has  tempted  many  a  com- 
poser; and  yet  it  hardly  seems  to  require  a  musical 
setting,  so  perfect  is  the  verbal  melody  which  Tennyson 
gave  it.  The  poem  was  written  in  the  poet's  eighty-first 
year,  and  by  his  direction  it  is  placed  last  in  every  edition 
of  his  poems.  The  "Pilot"  Tennyson  explained  as  "That 
Divine  and  Unseen  Who  is  always  guiding  us." 

CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 


THE  SONG  63 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892) 

Tennyson's  "Sweet  and  Low,"  one  of  the  lyrics  in  The 
Princess,  is  as  musical  as  "Crossing  the  Bar,"  but  it  has 
been  wedded  by  Barnby  to  an  air  which  fits  it  admirably. 
The  song  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  lullabies  in  the 
language. 

SWEET  AND  LOW 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me: 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon; 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 
Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892} 

No  living  poet  has  written  more  melodious  verse  than 
William  Butler  Yeats.  The  following  song  from  his 
poetic  drama,  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire,  is  as  musical 
as  the  best  of  Elizabethan  songs. 


64  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

SONG  from  THE   LAND   OF  HEART'S   DESIRE 

The  wind  blows  out  of  the  gates  of  day, 

The  wind  blows  over  the  lonely  of  heart, 

And  the  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away 

While  the  faeries  dance  in  a  place  apart, 

Shaking  their  milk-white  feet  in  a  ring, 

Tossing  their  milk-white  arms  in  the  air; 

For  they  hear  the  wind  laugh  and  murmur  and  sing 

Of  a  land  where  even  the  old  are  fair, 

And  even  the  wise  are  merry  of  tongue; 

"But  I  heard  a  reed  of  Coolaney  say, 

When  the  wind  has  laughed  and  murmured  and  sung, 

The  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away." 

William  Butler  Yeats  (1865-  ) 

For  the  last  two  centuries  the  lyric,  which  includes  the 
song,  has  been  the  predominant  type  of  poetry.  This 
anthology  is  therefore  concerned  chiefly  with  lyric  poetry. 
Of  this  important  type,  Professor  Bliss  Perry  has  written 
in  his  admirable  Study  of  Poetry:  "The  lyric  is  the 
commonest,  and  yet,  in  its  perfection,  the  rarest  type  of 
poetry ;  the  earliest,  and  yet  the  most  modern ;  the 
simplest,  and  yet  in  its  laws  of  emotional  association, 
perhaps  the  most  complex;  and  it  is  all  these  because  it 
expresses,  more  intimately  than  other  types  of  verse,  the 
personality  of  the  poet."  In  the  chapters  which  follow 
we  shall  study  the  meter,  style,  and  subject  matter  of  the 
lyric.  Once  again,  however,  in  the  chapter  on  the  ballad, 
we  shall  return  to  the  poem  which  is  sung  and  note  once 
more  the  debt  of  later  poetry  to  the  folk-song  and  the 
folk-ballad. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  DUPLE  METERS 

,f    >   *  i  ' '  •- 

Trochee  trips  fr6m  long  t6  short; 
From  long  to  long  in  solemn  sort 
Slow  spSndee  stalks;  strong  foot!  yea  ill  able 
Ever  tfi  come  up  with  Dactyl  trisyllable. 
Iambics  march  fr6m  short  t5  long; — _ 
With  a  leap  and  a  bound  the  swift  Anapaests  throng. 
Samuel    Taylor   Coleridge : 

"Metrical  Feet:  Lesson  for  a  Boy" 

ALL  persons  acquainted  with  musical  notation  will  recall 
that  every  normal  composition  consists  of  certain  small 
units — bars — of  equal  length.  Just  as  one  finds  in  music 
common  time,  three-fourths  time,  and  the  like,  one  recog- 
nizes in  poetry  certain  regularly  recurring  minor  units. 
These  units  are  based  not,  as  in  music,  upon  time,  but 
upon  the  accent  of  English  words.  In  prose,  accented 
and  unaccented  syllables  occur  in  an  irregular  order ;  in 
poetry,  the  arrangement  is  usually  alternate  and  nor- 
mally regular.  In  the  following  lines,  from  a  song  in 
Alfred  Noyes*s  romantic  epic  Drake,  the  accented  syl- 
lables are  marked  with  an  a  and  the  unaccented  with  an  x 
— conventional  symbols  which  will  be  employed  through- 
out this  study : 

x         a  \  x      a     \    x        a    \    x         a 
The  moon  is  up:     The  stars  are  bright: 
65 


66  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

x         a  |   x      a     |    x        a 
The  wind  is   fresh  and   free ! 

x         a  \   x      a     \    x        a    \    x     a 
We're  out  to  seek    for    gold    to-night 
x      a  |    x       a  |   x      a 
Across     the     silver     sea ! 

The  notation  here,  it  will  be  observed,  agreas  exactly 
with  the  pronunciation  of  everyday  speech.  The  words 
could  not  conceivably  be  accented  in  any  other  than  the 
indicated  way.  The  unit,  it  will  also  be  noticed,  consists 
of  two  syllables,  the  first  unaccented,  the  second  accented. 
This,  or  any  similar  minor  unit  of  poetry,  is  called  a 
foot.  The  marking  or  determination  of  feet  is  called 
scansion.  The  foot  xa  is  known  as  an  iamb,  or  an  iambus; 
and  the  meter  of  the  above  selection  is  consequently  de- 
scribed as  iambic. 

The  determination  of  stress  is,  however,  not  usually  as 
easy  as  in  this  mechanically  perfect  passage.  Consider 
the  lines : 

ax          a 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ease  this  natural  song 

and 

x     a    x 

Where  lay  the  porter  in  uneasy  sprawl. 

In  the  first  of  these  lines  in  is  unaccented ;  in  the  second, 
it  is  accented.  These  examples  show  an  important  char- 
acteristic of  English  accent — the  fact  that  it  is  largely 
relative.  As  in  the  case  of  m  here,  many  short  words  or 
syllables  are  accented  or  unaccented  according  to  the 
stress  received  by  the  adjacent  syllables.  These  and  other 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  67 

irregularities  will  be  more  fully  discussed  below.  They 
are,  of  course,  not  a  fault,  for  they  contribute  to  the 
flexibility  of  English  poetry. 

The  question  of  time  in  English  verse  is  much  mooted. 
The  analogy  with  music  is  suggestive,  but  may  be  carried 
too  far.  In  the  system  of  scansion,  known  to  all  who 
have  read  Vergil's  JEneid  in  the  original,  length  of  syl- 
lable rather  than  accent  is  the  criterion.  This  system 
cannot  be  applied  to  English  poetry — especially  in  an 
elementary  treatise.  A  word  like  strength  manifestly 
requires  for  its  utterance  more  time  than  a  word  like  the; 
but,  when  the  two  occur  together,  the  longer  word  nor- 
mally receives  the  accent: 

x  a       \x    a\  x  a        \  x    a 

My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 

Even  with  the  long  word  through  in  an  unaccented  posi- 
tion, no  one  would  hesitate  to  read  the  following  line  as 
we  have  marked  it: 


x  a     \    x       a 


at     a  \  at       a 


Through  broad  and  fen  the  Norfolk  men. 

Most  authorities  thus  agree  that  in  English  verse  time 
is,  in  comparison  with  accent,  of  slight  or  at  least  secon- 
dary importance  and  need  be  considered  chiefly  in  avoid- 
ing heavy  syllables  in  unaccented  positions — a  fault 
which  has  been  referred  to  as  marring  "The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner."  In  many  treatises  on  versification, 
the  symbols  «•  and  -  are  used  to  denote  unaccented  and 
accented  syllables  respectively.  These  symbols  are  de- 
rived from  classical  prosody  and  should  not  be  used  in 


68  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

English  with  their  usual  names  short  and  long,  except 
with  the  understanding  that  these  terms  have  no  neces- 
sary reference  to  the  amount  of  time  required  for  pro- 
nouncing a  syllable. 

In  addition  to  the  iambic  there  are  three  other  fre- 
quently occurring  feet:  the  trochee  (ax),  the  anapest 
(xxa),  and  the  dactyl  (axx).  These  are  respectively 
exemplified  in  the  three  lines  below.  The  corresponding 
adjectives  are  trochaic,  anapestic,  and  dactylic. 

a      x    \  a      x\  a    x\  a     x 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 


x     a 


x    a 


And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold. 

a        x      x  \    a    x  x 
Take  her  up  tenderly. 

The  four  types  of  feet  thus  far  exemplified  are  all 
which  need  consideration  in  an  elementary  study.  The 
numerous  additional  types  listed  in  treatises  on  versifica- 
tion have  no  real  place  in  English  except  in  imitations  of 
Latin  and  other  foreign  rhythms.  A  few  of  these  exotic 
feet  are  the  pyrrhic  (xx),  the  spondee  (aa),  the  amphi- 
brach (xax),  the  amphimacer  (axa),  the  anapestic  poeon 
(xxxa),  and  the  dactylic  paeon  (axxx).  Attempts  at 
employing  these  feet,  as  well  as  imitations  of  the  classical 
meters,  are  usually,  by  the  ordinary  reader,  felt  to  be 
either  free  verse  or  approximations  at  various  combina- 
tions of  the  four  familiar  meters. 

The  four  English  meters — iambic,  trochaic,  anapestic, 
dactylic — may  be  divided  according  to  two  criteria.  The 
iambic  and  anapestic  meters  are,  in  the  first  place,  some- 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  69 

times  classed  together  as  ascending  or  riavng  pieters  be- 
cause they  begin  with  a  light  syllable  and  pass  to  a 
stressed  syllable;  and,  for  the  opposite  reason,  the  tro- 
chaic and  dactylic  meters  are  classed  together  as  de- 
scending or  fty/f-Miff-  This  classification  is  logical  and  con- 
venient ;  that  it  is  not  fundamental  may  be  shown  by  citing 
the  fact  that  from  the  latter  half  of  a  line  it  is  often  im- 
possible to  determine  whether  a  measure  is  ascending  or 
descending.  A  second  and  more  important  division  is 
made  between  the  iambic  and  trochaic  meters  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  anapestic  and  dactylic  on  the  other.  The 
meters  whose  feet  consist  of  two  syllables  are  called 
double  or  duple;  those  whose  feet  consist  of  three  syl- 
lables are  called  triple.  The  double  meters  present  a 
steady  alternation  between  stressed  and  unstressed  syl- 
lables, while  the  movement  of  the  triple  meters  is  more 
rapid.  The  distinction  between  double  and  triple  rhythms 
is  natural ;  it  is  sensed  by  the  ear  throughout  a  poem. 

Since  English  nouns  and  verbs  are  commonly  preceded 
by  weaker  parts  of  speech,  particularly  articles  and  pro- 
nouns, the  first  syllable  in  a  sentence  is  likely  to  bear  no 
accent,  and  English  poetry  accordingly  is  much  more 
frequently  ascending  than  descending.  Moreover,  since 
accented  and  unaccented  syllables  occur  in  approximately 
equal  proportions,  English  poetry  is  much  more  fre- 
quently duple  than  triple.  In  fact,  ever  since  the  modern 
type  of  versification  displaced  the  Old  English  alliterative 
poetry,  the  iambic  rhythm,  which  is  at  once  duple  and 
ascending,  has  been  the  standard  English  rhythm.  It  is 
the  vehicle  of  most  of  the  great  poetry  of  the  language. 
The  naturalness  of  the  iambic  rhythm  may  be  further 


70  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

shown  by  pointing  out  that  lofty  prose  often  has  an 
iambic  quality.  Well-known  examples  are  Lincoln's 
"Gettysburg  Address,"  and  the  concluding  pages  of 
Dickens's  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

The  following  stanza  from  Burns's  "Bonnie  Doon" 
(second  version)  is  as  purely  iambic  as  the  quotation 
from  Noyes : 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Common  as  is  the  iambic  meter,  a  poem  with  no  substi- 
tuted feet  is  not  the  rule  but  the  rare  exception.  Among 
Byron's  Hebrew  Melodies  is  found  a  poem  which  is  purely 
iambic  except  for  the  first  foot  in  the  fourth  line.  Thjs 
foot  must  be  read  not  xa  but  ax;  it  is  trochaic.  In  the 
first  foot  of  an  iambic  line  the  trochee  is  a  legitimate 
substitution,  which  affords  variety  and  emphasis. 

SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 

Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  71 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 

George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  Byron  (17 '88-182 4) 

The  second  duple  meter,  the  trochaic,  has  already  been 
partly  described.  The  following  selections  are  scanned 
respectively : 

ax  |  ax  |  ax  \  a 

and 

ax  |  ax  |  cue  \  ax. 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 

Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep.     .     .     . 

From  "Hymn  to  Diana,"  by  Ben  Jonson 

Give  me  of  your  bark,  O  Birch-tree ; 
Of  your  yellow  bark,  O  Birch-tree ! 
Growing  by  the  rushing  river, 
Tall  and  stately  in  the  valley ! 
I  a  light  canoe  will  build  me.    .    .    . 
That  shall  float  upon  the  river, 
Like  a  yellow  leaf  in  Autumn, 
Like  a  yellow  water-lily ! 
From  "Hiawatha,"  by  Henry  Wads-worth  Longfellow 

The  meter  of  the  first  of  the  above  selections  lacks  the 
unaccented  syllable  of  the  last  foot  of  the  line  and  is  con- 
sequently said  to  be  catalectic.  Since  poems  of  the  first 
type  are,  however,  more  frequent  than  poems  of  the  latter, 


72  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

the   full   trochaic   line  is   often   distinguished   from   the 
shorter  by  the  term  acatalectic. 

Although  there  is  no  great  fundamental  difference  be- 
tween the  iambic  and  the  trochaic  meters,  the  two  are, 
except  for  substituted  feet,  usually  not  employed  in  the 
same  poem.  Well-known  poems  in  which  these  meters 
are  combined  include,  however,  Milton's  "L'Allegro"  and 
"II  Penseroso."  The  former  has  a  far  larger  number  of 
trochaic  lines.  In  fact,  if  the  trochaic  meter  can  be  said 
to  have  preempted  any  one  field,  it  is  that  of  lively 
emphatic  presentment  of  a  subject.  The  stress  on  the 
initial  syllables  is  likely  to  induce  an  animated  reading  of 
the  poem.  In  the  following  passage  from  William  Blake's 
"The  Tiger"  the  first  three  lines  are  trochaic  while  the 
last  is  iambic: 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

The  blending  of  the  two  duple  meters  is  nowheie  better 
shown  than  in  Scott's 

HUNTING  SONG 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day, 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 
With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear ! 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 
Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  73 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming: 
And  foresters  have  busy  been 
To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 
Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 
Time,  stern  huntsman,  who  can  balk, 
Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk? 
Think  of  this  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  (1771-1832} 

A  similar  call  to  a  more  serious  purpose  is  voiced  in 
vigorous  trochaic  verse  in  Alfred  Edward  Housman's 
"Reveille,"  from  which  we  quote  two  stanzas : 

Up,  lad,  up,  'tis  late  for  lying: 
Hear  the  drums  of  morning  play; 

Hark,  the  empty  highways  crying 
"Who'll  beyond  the  hills  away?  .  .  . 


74  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Clay  lies  still,  but  blood's  a  rover; 

Breath's  a  ware  that  will  not  keep. 
Up,  lad;  when  the  journey's  over 

There'll  be  time  enough  to  sleep. 

Purely  trochaic  is  William  Blake's 

SONGS  OF  INNOCENCE:  INTRODUCTION 

«*  H        a,      A     *-  *        <*-• 
Piping  down  the  valleys 

_       ^L.  %        £*— •  K        -     ^ 


-fc     ti    --* 

,.***-%       «- 

iping  son 

'   £    ffi-        if 

On 


ipmg_  down  the  valleys  wild, 
*L .  *fc,  %    «~-      fc        A  y    cL 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee. 
\  ^   .oS-      jf~u—    \f  ek-- 

n  a  cloud  I  saw  a  cln'ld.    ^^ 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me: 

"Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb!" 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
"Piper,  pipe  that  song  again"; 

So  I  piped:  he  wept  to  hear. 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer !" 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  j  oy  to  hear. 

"Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 

In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight; 

And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William   Blake    (1757-1827) 

The  reader  should,  perhaps,  here  be  cautioned  to  re- 
member that  mere  metrical  regularity  does  not  produce 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  75 

a  great  poem.  The  irregularities  found  in  English  poetry 
contribute  toward  the  marvelous  musical  range  which  is 
one  of  its  chief  glories.  When  poets  vary  from  the  metri- 
cal norm  of  a  poem,  their  variations  are,  however,  usually 
subtle.  The  same  number  of  accented  syllables  in  suc- 
cessive lines,  irrespective  of  the  number  and  position  of 
the  unaccented  syllables,  affords  a  crude  sort  of  rhythm. 
Such  work  is  found  in  the  verse  themes  of  college  fresh- 
men, in  rude  ballads,  and  in  the  obituary  columns  of 
country  newspapers ;  it  is  found  in  no  great  or  careful 
poetry.  On  the  other  hand,  poetry  suffers  rather  than 
gains  from  too  regular  a  pattern.  An  easy  metrical 
fluency  can  with  practice  be  acquired  by  almost  any  edu- 
cated person.  Swinburne  and  Poe,  well-nigh  faultless  in 
technique,  are  the  easiest  poets  to  parody  or  imitate. 
The  monotonous  recurrence  of  stress  and  the  unvaried 
rimes  of  Pope's  heroic  couplets  make  his  lines  seem 
monotonous  and  plodding  to  the  modern  ear. 

The  lines  thus  far  quoted  have  not,  it  will  have  been 
observed,  the  same  number  of  feet.  In  "She  Walks  in 
Beauty"  each  line  has  four  feet;  in  "Bonnie  Doon"  lines 
of  four  feet  alternate  with  lines  of  three;  and  other  line 
lengths  will  be  found  elsewhere  in  the  chapter.  For  con- 
venience in  discussing  the  length  of  lines,  the  following 
terminology  is  employed.  A  line  consisting  of  a  single 
foot  is  called  a  manometer;  a  line  of  two  feet,  a  dimeter; 
three,  trimeter;  four,  tetrameter;  five,  pentameter;  six, 
hexameter;  seven,  heptameter;  eight,  octameter;  nine, 
nonameter.  Lines  of  eight  and  seven  feet  can,  in  fact, 
often  be  resolved  into  two  shorter  lines.  Herrick's  poem 
"Upon  his  Departure  Hence" — 


76  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Thus  I 
Pass  by 
And  die 
As  one 
Unknown 
And  gone — 

consists  of  six  lines  of  iambic  monometer.  A  nonameter 
poem,  Tennyson's  "To  Vergil,"  is  quoted  below.  Need- 
less to  say  these  extremes  are  rare.  The  great  bulk  of 
English  poetry  is  written  in  lines  of  three,  four,  five,  or 
six  feet,  lines  of  four  and  five  feet  occurring  most  fre- 
quently. In  this  connection  it  should  be  emphasized  that 
the  number  of  feet  in  a  line  is  determined  not  by  the  num- 
ber of  syllables,  but  by  the  number  of  accented  syllables. 
For  instance,  the  seven-syllable  line  scanned  ax  ax  ax  a 
contains  four  feet,  while  the  nine-syllable  line  xxa  xxa\ 


xxa 


x  contains  but  three. 


Poems,  especially  lyric  poems,  are  usually  divided  into 
stanzas,  metrical  units  each  of  which  has  the  same  pat- 
tern witj^  regard  to  the  number  of  the  lines,  the  length  of 
the  lines,  and  the  rime,.  Stanzas  are  metrical  units  and 
o?ten,  though  not  necessarily,  thought  units.  ~**+n***'f' 

In  describing  the  structure  of  stanzas,  critics  some- 
times employ  certain  formulas  making  for  brevity.  Let- 
ters of  the  alphabet  are  used  to  indicate  the  rime  arrange- 
ment, the  stanza  from  "Bonnie  Doon"  being,  for  instance, 
said  to  rime  abcb.  A  number  prefixed  to  the  symbol  (xat 
etc.)  for  a  foot  indicates  the  number  of  feet  to  the  line; 
an  iambic  tetrameter,  for  example,  is  described  as  4xa. 
If  this  symbol  is  placed  in  parentheses,  a  figure  outside 
indicates  the  number  of  lines  to  the  stanza.  The  stanza 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  77 

of  "She  Walks  in  Beauty"  can  thus  be  briefly  described 
by  the  formula  6(4^a),  riming  dbabdb.  If  a  stanza  is 
complicated  in  structure,  nothing  is  gained  by  these  sym- 
bols, which  are  chiefly  valuable  as  a  means  of  concise 
description. 

The  majority  of  stanzas  have  no  name,  and  new  com- 
binations of  lines  and  rimes  may  be  invented  by  a  poet 
as  they  seem  needed.  A  few  stanzas  are,  however,  suffi- 
ciently well  known  to  be  named.  The  stanza  quoted  from 
"Bonnie  Doon"  is  termed  the  ballad  stanza,  because  an- 
cient English  folk  poetry  was  often  cast  in  that  form. 
In  hymnals  this  stanza  is  designated  by  the  term  common 
meter  (C.M.)  The  rime  may  be  abcb  or  abab.  Other 
stanzas  bearing  descriptive  names,  or  the  names  of  great 
authors  who  have  popularized  them,  will  be  noted  as  they 
are  exemplified  in  the  selections. 

Certain  other  questions  of  interest  to  the  student  of 
verse  can  be  better  understood  after  a  careful  reading  of 
the  following  poem.  Swinburne  was  one  of  the  great  mas- 
ter melodists  of  the  English  tongue.  If  he  had  had  a 
thought-content  worthy  of  his  form,  it  would  be  hard  to 
ascribe  to  him  any  save  the  highest  place  in  Victorian 
poetry.  He  was  a  poet  of  sensuous  beauty,  of  ancient 
Greece,  of  Republican  patriotism,  of  child  life,  and  of 
stormy  and  desolate  nature.  "The  Garden  of  Proserpine" 
— as  typical  as  it  is  superb — gives  a  pagan  view  of  death ; 
but,  as  in  much  that  this  author  wrote,  the  splendid 
rhythm  and  melody  lull  one  into  forgetfulness  of  the  sub- 
ject. This  poem  should  be  compared  with  the  author's 
sonorous,  anapestic  "Hymn  to  Proserpine." 


78  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet  ;K          ^>^ 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems  ^ 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  rioto 

In  doubtful  dream  of  dreams;  O 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing  £>• 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing,  £/ 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing,  c^+ 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams.    *"^ 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 
And  men  that  laugh  and  weep; 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap: 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers, 
And  everything  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbour, 

And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer; 
They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 

And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 

No  heather-flower  or  vine, 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 

Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes, 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes, 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 

For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  79 

Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn, 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born; 
And  like  a  soul  belated, 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 

He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 
Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 

Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell; 
Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 
His  beauty  clouds  and  closes; 
And  well  though  love  reposes, 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal, 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 

With  cold  immortal  hands; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 

From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 

She  waits  for  all  men  born; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 

The  life  of  fruits  and  corn; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 

And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 


80  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 
And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 

And  all  disastrous  things; 
Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken, 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken, 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be 
That  no  life  lives  forever; 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 

Nor  any  change  of  light: 
Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 

Nor  any  sound  or  sight: 
Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 
Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 

In  an  eternal  night. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  (1887-1909) 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  81 

The  careful  reader  has  noticed  the  system  of  rime 
which  binds  the  lines  of  the  above  poem  into  groups  of 
eight,  riming  ababcccb.  The  fe-rimes,  like  the  rimes  pre- 
viously considered,  involve  but  one  syllable,  while  the  a- 
and  the  c-rimes  involve  two.  For  the  sake  of  a  convenient 
terminology,  rimes  involving  one  syllable  are  called  mas- 
culine; those  involving  two  or  three,  feminine.^  Equally 
useful,  but  somewhat  less  frequently  employed,  terms  are 
single,  double,  and  triple.  An  approximate  rime,  like  that 
of  river  and  never  in  the  next  to  the  last  stanza  is  tole- 
rated occasionally  by  custom  in  cases  where  suitable  rim- 
ing words  are  not  easily  found.  The  unaccented  syllable 
at  the  end  of  a  feminine  rime-word  in  an  ascending  meter 
is,  as  has  been  stated,  not  considered  a  foot.  The  lines 

x       a  |  x      a   |    x      a  \  x 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing 

and 

x     a  |  x        a     |  x         a 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams 

are  both  iambic  trimeters.  Lines  of  ascending  meter 
possessing  this  extra  final  syllable  are  termed  Jiyper- 
catalectic. 

The  first  line  of  the  second  stanza  of  the  above  poem 
should  be  marked 

xx        a  \    x       a    |    x        a   \    x 
I   am  tired  of  tears   and  laughter. 

The  anapest  is  sometimes  found  as  a  substitute  for  the 
iambus,  especially,  as  here,  in  the  first  foot  of  a  line. 
The  poetic  device  alliteration,  the  use  of  a  succession 


82  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

of  words  with  the  same  initial  consonant,  is  nowhere 
better  illustrated  than  in  stanzas  like  the  one  beginning 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Alliteration  is  usually  confined  to  accented  words,  but 
Swinburne's  fondness  for  the  alliterative  style  led  him  to 
use  it  also  in  unaccented  syllables : 

Wan   waves   and  wet  winds  labour, 
Weak,  ships.     .     .     . 

Alliteration  is  sometimes  referred  to  as  initial  rime.  This 
term  should  be  used  cautiously,  for  it  is  also  applied  to 
a  type  of  rime,  exceedingly  rare,  exhibited  in  this  stanza 
from  Alfred  Noyes's  "Astrid": 

White-armed    Astrid, — ah,   but   she   was   beautiful! 

Nightly  wandered  weeping  thro'  the  ferns  in  the  moon, 

Slowly,  weaving  her  strange  garland  in  the  forest, 

Crowned  with  white  violets, 

Gowned  in  green. 

Holy  was  that  glen  where  she  glided, 

Making  her  wild  garland  as  Merlin  had  bidden  her, 

Breaking  off  the  milk-white  horns  of  the  honey-suckle, 

Sweetly  dripped  the  dew  upon  her  small  white 

Feet. 

Often  associated  with  the  term  alliteration  is  the  term 
assonance,  which  is  used  to  describe  one  type  of  imperfect 
approximate  rime.  The  vowel  sound  must  be  the  same, 
but  the  concluding  consonants  are  different,  as  in  gnome- 
bold  or  beaux-roll.  Rimes  of  this  type  were  seen  in  early 
modern  English  poetry,  are  found  in  Spanish,  but  in 
recent  English  poetry  are  usually  a  sign  of  slovenly  work- 
manship. George  Eliot,  William  Butler  Yeats,  and  a 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  83 

few  others  have,  however,  used  assonance  with  some  effect. 
The  repetition  of  the  same  vowel  sound  in  other  than  end 
words  is  also  occasionally  called  assonance: 

...  of  dreams ; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For   reaping    folk   and    sowing.  .  .  . 

The  skilful  use  of  the  sounds  of  speech  results  in  a 
quality  of  poetry  known  as  tone-color  or  melody.  The 
basis  of  melody  is  to  be  sought  principally  in  the  markedly 
different  pitch  of  the  various  vowels.  In  producing  the 
sound  ee,  for  instance,  the  vocal  cords  vibrate  many 
times  more  rapidly  than  in  pronouncing  the  sound  uh. 
Consciously  and  unconsciously,  poets  avail  themselves  of 
this  principle  to  produce  subtle  yet  remarkable  effects. 
Consonants,  too,  play  a  part  in  melody.  The  liquids  Z, 
m,  n,  ng,  and  r  join  with  the  vowels  to  create  the  match- 
less word-music  of  "The  Garden  of  Proserpine."  With 
both  consonants  and  vowels  the  possibilities  are  almost 
limitless. 

Wordsworth  did  more  than  any  other  individual  to 
democratize  English  poetry.  In  his  famous  preface  to 
the  second  edition  (1800)  of  The  Lyrical  Ballads  he 
advocated  the  use  of  "the  real  language  of  men."  For 
his  poetry  he  chose  subjects  from  humble  life  and  inter- 
preted them  in  terms  of  the  loftiest  thought.  "The 
Solitary  Reaper"  is  one  of  several  "Memorials  of  a  Tour 
in  Scotland" — a  tour  which  Wordsworth  made  in  com- 
pany with  his  sister  Dorothy.  The  poem  is  rendered  im- 
mortal by  its  vivid  pictorial  quality,  its  haunting  melody, 
and  its  suggestive  power.  It  is  structurally  perfect,  each 


84 

stanza  being  a  complete  unit  in  the  development  of  the 
thought. 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 

0  listen!  for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago: 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  85 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

William    Wordsworth    (1770-1850} 

The  last  stanza  of  "The  Solitary  Reaper"  expresses, 
with  especial  reference  to  things  heard,  the  chief  value 
of  experience.  "I  Wandered  Lonely"  bears  witness  to  a 
similar  benefit  and  delight  derivable  from  things  seen. 
What  would  be  the  value  of  a  visit  to  the  Grand  Canyon, 
of  spending  an  hour  in  Westminster  Abbey,  or  of  wit- 
nessing a  performance  of  Hamlet,  if  no  mental  impression 
were  carried  forward  into  the  rest  of  life?  Culture  is — in 
part,  at  least — the  result  of  a  number  of  such  impressions. 
Herrick's  "To  Daffodils,"  Wordsworth's  "I  Wandered 
Lonely,"  and  Austin  Dobson's  "To  Daffodils"  are  an 
interesting  trio  of  poems.  Her  rick  sees  only  the  frail 
duration  of  the  daffodil  to  which  he  compares  human  life. 
For  Wordsworth  the  daffodils  afford  a  dual  pleasure:  the 
joy  of  beholding,  the  satisfaction  of  philosophizing  re- 
membrance. Dobson,  consciously  sophisticated,  refers  not 
only  to  the  daffodils,  but  to  his  poet  predecessors  who 
drew  inspiration  from  them.  In  reading  these  poems  it  is 
perhaps  stimulating  to  bear  in  mind  the  possibility  that 
the  greatest  poem  on  the  theme  is  yet  unwritten.  Words- 
worth owed  an  immeasurable  debt  to  his  wife  and  to  his 
sister  Dorothy.  Mrs.  Wordsworth  composed  the  third 
and  fourth  lines  of  the  last  stanza  of  "I  Wandered 
Lonely."  We  quote  the  account  from  Dorothy's  journal 
of  the  incident  which  inspired  the  poem: 


86  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"We  saw  a  few  daffodils  close  to  the  water-side.  But 
as  we  went  along  there  were  more  and  yet  more ;  and  at 
last,  under  the  boughs  of  the  trees,  we  saw  that  there  was 
a  long  belt  of  them  along  the  shore.  They  grew  among 
the  mossy  stones,  about  and  about  them;  some  rested 
their  heads  upon  these  stones,  as  a  pillow,  for  weariness ; 
and  the  rest  tossed  and  reeled  and  danced,  and  seemed 
as  if  they  verily  laughed  with  the  wind  that  blew  upon 
them  over  the  lake  .  .  .  they  looked  so  gay,  ever  glanc- 
ing, ever  changing." 

I  WANDERED  LONELY 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  87 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1860} 

In  its  treatment  of  the  flower,  the  above  poem  is 
essentially  modern,  as  are,  for  instance,  Bryant's  "To  the 
Fringed  Gentian"  and  Emerson's  "The  Rhodora."  From 
the  latter  we  quote: 

Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

With  "I  Wandered  Lonely"  let  us  compare  Waller's 
"Go,  Lovely  Rose,"  a  poem  which  exhibits  a  pre- 
Wordsworthian  interpretation  of  floral  loveliness.  Two 
widely  known  American  poems  of  this  type  are  "The 
Wild  Honeysuckle"  by  the  Revolutionary  poet  Philip 
Freneau,  and  "My  Life  Is  Like  the  Summer  Rose," 
by  another  politician  poet,  Richard  Henry  Wilde.  Her- 
rick's  "To  Daffodils"  has  already  been  mentioned.  The 
last  two  lines  of  the  poem  below  may  be  seen  at  Char- 
lottesville,  Virginia,  engraved  on  the  tomb  of  a  Miss 
Maude  Woods,  who  won  a  prize  for  beauty  at  the  Pan- 
American  Exposition  (Buffalo,  1901)  and  died  within  a 
year. 

GO,  LOVELY  ROSE! 

Go,  lovely  Rose ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 


88  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Tell  her  that's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired: 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee: 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 

Edmund  Waller  (1606-1687} 

In  the  following  poem  the  author  has  received  his  im- 
pression not  from  a  singer,  not  from  a  flower  or  a  bed  of 
flowers,  but  from  a  bird  outlined  in  flight  against  the 
sunset.  Bryant's  poetry  was  largely  the  product  of  his 
youth.  In  later  life  he  was  editor  of  the  New  York  Eve- 
ning Post  and  for  a  while  before  his  death  was  commonly 
regarded  as  America's  "first  citizen." 


TO  A  WATER-FOWL 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  89 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that   I   must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William   Cullen  Bryant    (1794-1878) 


90  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  conclusion  of  "To  a  Waterfowl"  expresses  a  moral 
much  more  obviously  than  Wordsworth  did  in  either  of 
the  poems  just  quoted.  In  fact,  ending  a  poem  with  a 
moral  is  characteristic  not  only  of  Bryant  but  of  most  of 
his  fellows  in  the  early  nineteenth  century  group  of  New 
England  poets.  Witness  the  conclusions  of  two  other 
great  compositions : 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

From  "Thanatopsis,"  by  William  Cullen  Bryant 

To  a  description  of  a  tinted  shell  is  applied  the  following 
moral,  marred  by  an  unfortunate  phrase,  "shut  thee  from 
heaven" : 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 
From  "The  Chambered  Nautilus,"  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

The  poem  below,  now  often  heard  as  a  song,  is  a  noble 
expression  of  the  indomitable  quality  of  the  human  will. 
Henley,  friend  of  Stevenson,  literary  critic,  and  master 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  91 

of  light  verse,  lay  on  a  sick  bed  when  he  wrote  it.    Invictus 
means  unconquered. 

INVICTUS 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 

Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 

I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 
Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 

My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I   am  the  master  of  my   fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

William  Ernest  Henley    (1849-1908) 


Though  sharing  with  Spenser,  Keats,  Shelley,  and  Swin- 
burne the  distinction  of  being  a  poet  for  poets,  Matthew 
Arnold  is  admired  less  for  his  metrical  subtlety  than  for 
his  intellectual  quality.  The  following  poem,  perhaps  an 
echo  from  Goethe,  succinctly  reflects  its  author's  phi- 
losophy of  life. 


02  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

DESTINY 

Why  each  is  striving,  from  of  old, 
To  love  more  deeply  than  he  can? 
Still  would  be  true,  yet  still  grows  cold? 
— Ask  of  the  Powers  that  sport  with  man ! 

They  yoked  in  him,  for  endless  strife, 
A  heart  of  ice,  a  soul  of  fire; 
And  hurl'd  him  on  the  Field  of  Life, 
An  aimless  unallay'd  Desire. 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888) 

Whereas  Arnold  thinks  almost  wholly  in  terms  of  the 
individual,  Kipling  thinks  in  terms  of  the  English  race — 
triumphant,  beneficent,  conscious  of  its  mission.  The  title 
of  "The  White  Man's  Burden"  has  become  a  current 
phrase  in  the  language. 

THE  WHITE  MAN'S  BURDEN 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Send  forth  the  best  ye  breed — 
Go  bind  your  sons  to  exile 

To  serve  your  captives'  need; 
To  wait  in  heavy  harness, 

On  fluttered  folk  and  wild — 
Your  new-caught,  sullen  peoples, 

Half-devil  and  half-child. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  Burden — 

In  patience  to  abide, 
To  veil  the  threat  of  terror 

And  check  the  show  of  pride; 
By  open  speech  and  simple, 

An  hundred  times  made  plain, 
To  seek  another's  profit, 

And  work  another's  gain. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  93 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

The  savage  wars  of  peace — 
Fill  full  the  mouth  of  Famine 

And  bid  the  sickness  cease; 
And  when  your  goal  is  nearest 

The  end  for  others  sought, 
Watch  Sloth  and  heathen  Folly 

Bring  all  your  hope  to  nought. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

No  tawdry  rule  of  kings, 
But  toil  of  serf  and  sweeper — 

The  tale  of  common  things. 
The  ports  ye  shall  not  enter, 

The  roads  ye  shall  not  tread, 
Go  make  them  with  your  living, 

And  mark  them  with  your  dead. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

And  reap  his  old  reward: 
The  blame  of  those  ye  better, 

The  hate  of  those  ye  guard — 
The  cry  of  hosts  ye  humour 

(Ah,  slowly!)  toward  the  light:— 
"Why  brought  ye  us  from  bondage, 

"Our  loved  Egyptian  night?" 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Ye  dare  not  stoop  to  less — 
Nor  call  too  loud  on  Freedom 

To  cloak  your  weariness; 
By  all  ye  cry  or  whisper, 

By  all  ye  leave  or  do, 
The  silent,  sullen  peoples 

Shall  weigh  your  Gods  and  you. 


94  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Have  done  with  childish  days — 
The  lightly  proffered  laurel, 

The  easy,  ungrudged  praise. 
Comes  now,  to  search  your  manhood 

Through  all  the  thankless  years, 
Cold,  edged  with  dear-bought  wisdom, 

The  judgment  of  your  peers! 

Rudyard  Kipling    (1865-} 

The  following  poem  was  written  before  Kipling  was 
born;  but  it  has  as  its  subject  an  individual  who  bore  the 
"white  man's  burden.'*  Poems  of  this  type  are  said  to  be 
occasional — that  is,  inspired  by  or  written  for  a  particu- 
lar incident  or  occasion.  The  author  of  "The  Private  of 
the  Buffs"  was  Matthew  Arnold's  successor  as  Professor 
of  Poetry  at  Oxford.  The  Buffs  was  a  Kentish  regiment ; 
Lord  Elgin,  an  Englishman  prominent  in  Anglo-Chinese 
affairs  about  1860. 

THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS 

Some  Sikhs  and  a  private  of  the  Buffs,  having  remained 
behind  with  the  grog  carts,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Chinese. 
On  the  next  morning  they  were  brought  before  the  authorities, 
and  commanded  to  perform  the  Kotow.  The  Sikhs  obeyed; 
but  Moyse,  the  English  soldier,  declaring  that  he  would  not 
prostrate  himself  before  any  Chinaman  alive,  was  imme- 
diately knocked  upon  the  head,  and  his  body  thrown  on  a 
dunghill.— The  Times. 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  quaffed,  and  swore, 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  looked  before. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  95 

To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Aye,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb, 

Bring  cord,  or  ax,  or  flame: 
He  only  knows,  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seem'd, 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleamed, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow; 
The  smoke,  above  his  father's  door, 

In  grey  soft  eddyings  hung: 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doom'd  by  himself  so  young? 

Yes,  honour  calls ! — with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by. 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel; 

An  English  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain,  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed; 

Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns ; 
Unless  proud  England  keep,  untamed, 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons. 


96  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

So,  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring — 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  King, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 
Sir  Francis  Hastings  Charles  Doyle  (1810-1888). 

From  the  foregoing  objective  treatment  of  honor,  we 
turn  to  a  subjective  view  of  the  sister  virtue — duty.  The 
term  ode,  as  used  here  in  the  loosest  of  its  three  meanings, 
implies  a  serious  reflective  poem  of  considerable  length. 

ODE  TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 

O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 
Glad  Hearts !  without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 
O !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 

They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power !  around  them 
cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  97 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power ! 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 


98  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give; 

And  in  the  light  of  Truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live ! 

William  Wordsworth   (1770-1850} 

The  second  and  fourth  lines  of  the  first  of  the  above 
stanzas  do  not  rime  in  pronunciation.  Ending  each  in 
-ove,  however,  the  words  on  the  page  appear  to  rime. 
This  type  of  rime,  found  occasionally  in  the  work  of  some 
of  the  greatest  poets,  is  called  eye-rime.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  second  and  fourth  lines  of  the  second  stanza 
rime  in  pronunciation,  although  they  are  not  spelled 
alike.  Such  rime,  though  wholly  satisfactory,  is  called 
ear-rime  to  distinguish  it  from  rime  such  as  God-rod  in 
which  both  sound  and  spelling  are  identical.  Free  and 
humanity  represent  a  type  of  approximate  rime.  In 
Elizabethan  as  well  as  in  some  later  poems  this  final  y  is 
to  be  considered  as  riming  with  try. 

Compare  the  two  foregoing  poems  with  the  following. 
Note  that  a  similar  theme — devotion  to  duty — is  brought 
out  almost  equally  well  by  a  narrated  incident,  a  bit  of 
reasoned  philosophy,  or  the  lyric  cry  of  a  lover.  In  "To 
Lucasta"  note  the  rime  nunnery-fly.  It  was  typical  of 
the  seventeenth  century  to  address  a  lady  by  a  Latin 
name.  Lovelace  is  remembered  with  Suckling  and  Carew 
as  a  Cavalier  poet. 

TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  99 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

Colonel  Richard  Lovelace  (1618-1668} 

It  is  perhaps  a  platitude  that  one  admires — secretly, 
at  least — a  quality  one  lacks.  Burns,  a  creature  of  im- 
pulse, in  writing  the  epitaph  of  a  brother  worker,  gave 
highest  praise  to  self-control.  The  stanza  of  "A  Bard's 
Epitaph,"  found  also  in  such  well-known  poems  as  "To 
a  Mouse"  and  "To  a  Mountain  Daisy,"  has  been  given 
Burns's  name.  Note  in  this  poem  the  change  from  dialect 
to  standard  English.  Owre  means  over;  blate,  timid; 
snool,  yield  weakly ;  dool,  sorrow. 

A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool? 

Let  him  draw  near; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 

That  weekly  this  area  throng? 

Oh,  pass  not  by ! 
But,  with  a  frater-feeling  strong, 

Here,  heave  a  sigh. 


100  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career 

Wild  as  the  wave? 
Here  pause — and  thro'  the  starting  tear, 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name! 

Reader,  attend ! — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthy  hole, 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 

Robert  Burns    (1759-1796} 

Poems  charged  with  homely  sentiment  are,  like  songs 
and  narrative  verse,  enjoyed  by  persons  uninitiated  into 
the  subtleties  of  the  unsung  lyric.  Kingsley  is,  of  course, 
best  known  not  as  a  poet  but  as  the  author  of  the  novels 
Westward  Ho!  and  Hereward  the  Wake.  Note  the  femi- 
nine rimes  in  "Young  and  Old."  Were  the  words  lad  and 
there  omitted,  the  sense  would  be  equally  clear,  but  the 
poem  would  somehow  lose  its  slow  tempo  and  pathetic 

dignity. 

YOUNG  AND  OLD 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  green; 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 

And  every  lass  a  queen; 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  101 

Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away; 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 

And  every  dog  his  day. 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown; 
And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down; 
Creep  home,  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  spent  and  maimed  among: 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there, 

You  loved  when  all  was  young. 

Charles   Kingsley    (1819-1875} 

In  the  above  poem  the  second  stanza  affords  a  contrast 
with  the  first.  In  the  following,  the  second  answers  a  ques- 
tion which  the  first  has  propounded.  Goldsmith,  a  mem- 
ber of  Dr.  Johnson's  Club,  was  the  versatile  author  of 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The 
Deserted  Village,  and  The  Citizen  of  the  World.  A 
brilliant  parody  of  "When  Lovely  Woman"  may  be  found 
in  the  chapter  on  Light  Verse. 

WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, — 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover 

And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die. 

Oliver  Goldsmith   (1728-1774) 


102  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  art,  the  mythology,  and  the  mystery  of  the  ancient 
world  have  always  been  popular  subjects  with  English 
poets.  The  Niobe  of  Greek  mythology,  who  lost  her  six 
sons  and  six  daughters  and  would  not  be  comforted,  has, 
for  instance,  become  a  type  of  the  bereaved  mother  of 
all  times  and  lands.  For  Byron's  cultivated  audience  a 
hundred  words  could  not  have  described  Rome  so  well  as 
the  phrase  "the  Niobe  of  nations."  In  "Niobe,"  as  in 
"Orpheus  and  Eurydice,"  and  "The  Venus  of  Milo," 
Noyes  has  attained  a  high  rank  among  modern  inter- 
preters of  the  legends  of  Greek  mythology.  "Niobe"  is, 
perhaps,  the  finest  presentation  in  words  of  the  legendary 
mother. 

NIOBE 

How  like  the  sky  she  bends  above  her  child, 

One  with  the  great  horizon  of  her  pain ! 
No  sob  from  our  low  seas  where  woe  runs  wild, 

No  weeping  cloud,  no  momentary  rain, 
Can  mar  the  heaven-high  visage  of  her  grief, 
That  frozen  anguish,  proud,  majestic,  dumb. 
She  stoops  in  pity  above  the  labouring  earth, 

Knowing  how  fond,  how  brief 
Is  all  its  hope,  past,  present,  and  to  come, 

She  stoops  in  pity,  and  yearns  to  assuage  its  dearth. 

Through  that  fair  face  the  whole  dark  universe 

Speaks,  as  a  thorn-tree  speaks  thro'  one  white  flower; 

And  all  those  wrenched  Promethean  souls  that  curse 
The  gods,  but  cannot  die  before  their  hour, 

Find  utterance  in  her  beauty.    That  fair  head 
Bows  over  all  earth's  graves.     It  was  her  cry 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  103 

Men  heard  in  Rama  when  the  twisted  ways 

With  children's  blood  ran  red ! 
Her  silence  utters  all  the  sea  would  sigh; 

And,  in  her  face,  the  whole  earth's  anguish  prays. 

It  is  the  pity,  the  pity  of  human  love 

That  strains  her  face,  upturned  to  meet  the  doom, 
And  her  deep  bosom,  like  a  snow-white  dove 

Frozen  upon  its  nest,  ne'er  to  resume 
Its  happy  breathing  o'er  the  golden  brace 

Whose  fostering  was  her  death.     Death,  death  alone 
Can  break  the  anguished  horror  of  that  spell ! 

The  sorrow  on  her  face 

Is  sealed:  the  living  flesh  is  turned  to  stone; 
She  knows  all,  all,  that  Life  and  Time  can  tell 

Ah,  yet,  her  woman's  love,  so  vast,  so  tender; 

Her  woman's  body,  hurt  by  every  dart; 
Braving  the  thunder,  still,  still  hide  the  slender 

Soft  frightened  child  beneath  her  mighty  heart. 
She  is  all  one  mute  immortal  cry,  one  brief 
Infinite  pang  of  such  victorious  pain 

That  she  transcends  the  heavens  and  bows  them  downs 

The  majesty  of  grief 
Is  hers,  and  her  dominion  must  remain 

Eternal.    God  nor  man  usurps  that  crown. 

Alfred  Noyes  (1880-  ) 

In  this  iambic  poem,  note  the  substitution  of  the  lighter 
ascending  foot  in  the  last  line  of  the  first  stanza.  The 
fifth  line  may  be  similarly  explained,  or  heaven  may  be 
considered  as  a  monosyllable.  These  substitutions  are 
fairly  frequent  in  iambic  poetry.  Similarly  the  dactyl 
appears  occasionally  in  a  trochaic  line.  Much  as  the 
words  Promethean  and  Rama  may  connote,  it  is  evident 


104.  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

that  they  possess  also  a  musical  value.  George  White- 
field,  it  is  said,  could  bring  an  audience  to  tears  by  his 
pronunciation  of  the  word  Mesopotamia.  Poets  likewise 
know  the  human  ear  and  the  capabilities  of  the  language. 
In  each  of  the  following  lists  of  female  names,  the  very 
essence  of  the  author's  melody  is  accurately  reflected : 

Faustina,  Fragoletta,  Dolores, 
Felise  and  Yolande  and  Juliette.  .   .  . 
From  "Dedication,"  by  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 
Margaret  and  Rosalys. 
From  "The  Blessed  Damosel,"  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

Milton  is,  of  course,  the  classic  example. 

Keats's  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn"  is  one  of  the  supreme 
English  masterpieces  of  subtle  melody.  The  last  two  lines 
are  often  compared  with  the  passage  already  quoted  from 
Emerson's  "The  Rhodora"  and  with  the  opening  lines  of 
Keats's  own  Endymion, 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever. 

Though  almost  purely  lyric,  the  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn" 
is  far  removed  from  the  simplicity  of  the  song;  it  relies 
not  only  upon  rime  and  rhythm  but  upon  sound-harmony 
or  tone-color.  To  enjoy  the  poem  fully,  one  must  visu- 
alize the  antique  urn  upon  which  some  forgotten  genius 
told  his  story  not  in  words  but  in  design.  With  reference 
to  sight  and  sound,  Keats's  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn" 
and  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale"  bear  to  each  other  a  relation 
similar  to  that  which  exists  between  Wordsworth's  "I 
Wandered  Lonely"  and  "The  Solitary  Reaper." 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  105 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme: 
What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Temple  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?     What  maidens  loth? 

What  mad  pursuit?    What  struggle  to  escape? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


106  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!     Fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity:   Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

John  Keats  (1795-1821) 


There  is  sometimes  a  close  kinship  between  a  poem  and 
an  example  of  some  other  art.  The  historic  and  funda- 
mental relation  between  poetry  and  music  has  been  dis- 
cussed in  the  chapter  on  the  Song.  Though  these  sister 
arts  have  in  the  main  followed  divergent  paths,  they  are 
still  often  associated.  In  the  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  oper- 
ettas, for  instance,  airs  and  lyrics  are  happily  blended. 
The  relation  of  poetry  to  sculpture  has  been  suggested  by 
Noyes's  "Niobe,"  the  conception  of  which  seems  to  have 
been  largely  derived  from  the  Uffizi  statue.  The  figured 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  107 

Grecian  urn,  supposedly  a  copy  of  an  original  by  Scopas, 
comes  a  step  nearer  to  painting;  Keats,  endowed  with  a 
high  pictorial  quality,  is,  in  Browning's  "Popularity," 
described  as  the  one  who  fished  up  the  murex,  the  shell-fish 
which  yields  royal  purple.  The  picture  quality  of  poetry 
reached  its  culmination  in  Rossetti,  who,  like  Blake,  was 
a  painter  as  well  as  a  poet  and  often  expressed  the  same 
idea  in  each  of  the  two  arts.  The  Imagists  of  the  twen- 
tieth century  aim  at  painting  pictures  with  words.  Ten- 
nyson, a  poetic  heir  of  Keats,  wrote  many  poems  expres- 
sive of  color  and  form.  From  "The  Lady  of  Shalott,"  for 
instance,  J.  W.  Waterhouse  and  George  H.  Boughton 
each  drew  the  subject  for  a  painting.  Although  Tenny- 
son wrote  "The  Splendor  Falls"  "after  hearing  the 
echoes  of  Killarney  in  1848,"  the  poem  is  even  more 
pictorial  than  suggestive  of  sounds. 

THE  SPLENDOR  FALLS 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


108  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 
Alfred,   Lord    Tennyson    (1809-1892) 

When  a  word  within  a  line  rimes  with  one  at  the  end 
(falls-walls,  line  one,  above)  the  rime  is  described  as 
internal.  The  difference  between  internal  rime  and  the 
normal  end  rime  is  slight,  the  latter  being,  of  course,  some- 
what more  emphatic.  Note  that  the  refrain  of  the  above 
stanzas  differs  markedly  from  the  regular  iambic  tetrame- 
ters of  the  first  four  lines.  In  the  refrain  the  call  of  a 
bugle  is  imitated  in  words.  This  adaptation  of  sound  to 
sense,  common  in  poetry,  is  called  onomatorjozia.  The 
adjective  is  onomatopoeic  or  onomatopoetic. 

Although  the  quatrain  of  iambic  tetrameters  riming 
abba  had  been  used  previously,  it  remained  for  Tennyson 
to  give  the  meter  a  great  poem.  In  Memoriam  has  since 
given  the  name  to  the  stanza  in  which  it  is  written.  The 
following  passage  is  often  sung  as  a  Christmas  carol. 

RING  OUT,  WILD  BELLS 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  109 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 
Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  s"ee  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892) 

In  the  preceding  hymn  Tennyson  expressed  a  general 
appeal  for  better  conditions.     In  the  following  poem  the 


110  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

newly  appointed  laureate  complimented  the  great  sov- 
ereign who  was  regarded  by  her  contemporaries  as  the 
epitome  of  an  age  of  morality  and  idealism.  A  dedication 
in  verse  is  difficult.  Swinburne's  self-dedication  in  his 
Poems  and  Ballads,  First  Series,  displays  high  metrical 
skill.  Whittier's  "Proem,"  Morris's  "An  Apology," 
and  Masefield's  "A  Consecration"  ably  characterize  the 
aims  of  their  respective  authors.  Happily  phrased  is 
William  Watson's  sonnet  offering  a  volume  "To  Lord 
Tennyson."  It  is  safe  to  say,  however,  that  no  dedication 
has  surpassed  in  felicity  the  subjoined  poem.  The  refer- 
ence in  the  second  stanza  is  to  William  Wordsworth,  who 
preceded  Tennyson  as  poet  laureate. 

TO  THE  QUEEN 

Revered,  beloved — O  you  that  hold 
A  nobler  office  upon  earth 
Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 

Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria, — since  your  Royal  grace 

To  one  of  less  desert  allows 

This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  that  utter 'd  nothing  base; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there; 

Then — while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 

And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  111 

Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 
The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song; 

For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 

In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 
Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

"Her  court  was  pure;  her  life  serene; 

God  gave  her  peace;  her  land  reposed; 
A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen; 

"And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"By  shaping  some  august  decree 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will, 
And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea!" 

Alfred,  Lord   Tennyson    (1809-1892} 

As  Tennyson  lay  on  his  death-bed,  Henry  van 
Dyke,  author,  clergyman,  professor,  and  later  ambas- 
sador to  Holland  and  Luxemburg,  penned  the  follow- 
ing poem,  felicitous  in  its  reference  to  "Crossing  the 
Bar,'*  and  carrying  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  lines  the 
noblest  conceivable  tribute.  The  trochaic  octame- 


112  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

ter    lines    harmonize    well    with    the    tone    of    stately 
dignity. 

TENNYSON 

In  Lucem  Transitus,  October,  1892 

From  the  misty  shores  of  midnight,  touched  with  splendors  of 

the  moon, 
To  the  singing  tides  of  heaven,  and  the  light  more  clear  than 

noon, 
Passed  a  soul  that  grew  to  music  till  it  was  with  God  in  tune. 

Brother  of  the  greatest  poets,  true  to  nature,  true  to  art; 
Lover  of  Immortal  Love,  uplifter  of  the  human  heart, — 
Who  shall  cheer  us  with  high  music,  who  shall  sing,  if  thou 
depart? 

Silence  here — for  love  is  silent,  gazing  on  the  lessening  sail; 
Silence  here — for  grief  is  voiceless  when  the  mighty  minstrels 

fail; 

Silence  here — but,  far  beyond  us,  many  voices  crying,  Hail ! 

Henry  van  Dyke  (1852-  ) 

Tennyson  was  buried  in  London,  in  the  "Poets'  Corner" 
of  Westminster  Abbey.  That  venerable  Gothic  building 
contains  many  more  immortals  now  than  when  Beaumont 
wrote  his  poem,  and  among  those  recently  buried  therein 
are  a  number  of  men  of  letters.  Speaking  for  a  British 
colony,  Kipling  well  terms  Westminster  "The  Abbey  that 
makes  us  we."  Beaumont's  name  is  almost  inseparably 
connected  with  that  of  John  Fletcher — the  two  constitute 
the  most  famous  pair  of  collaborators  in  English 
literature. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  113 


Mortality,  behold  and  fear, 
What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here  ! 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones; 
Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 
Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands, 
Where  from  their  pulpits  seal'd  with  dust 
They  preach,  "In  greatness  is  no  trust." 
Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 
With  the  richest  royallest  seed 
That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin: 
Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried 
"Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died  !" 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings: 
Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 
Francis    Beaumont 


Tennyson  strove  in  The  Idylls  of  the  King  to  do  for 
the  obscure  dawn  of  his  country  what  Vergil  had  done  for 
Rome.  His  selection  by  the  Mantuans  as  the  nineteenth 
centenary  poet  was  consequently  exceedingly  happy,  and 
his  response  justified  the  choice.  This  excellent  occa- 
sional poem  is  written  in  trochaic  nonameter  catalectic, 
a  very  unusual  form. 

TO  VIRGIL 

(WRITTEN    AT    THE    REQUEST    OF    THE    MANTUANS    FOR    THE 
NINETEENTH  CENTENARY  OF  VIRGII/S  DEATH) 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest  Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed 
in  fire, 


114  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising,  wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's 
pyre; 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language,  more  than  he  that  sang  the 

"Works  and  Days," 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy  flashing  out  from  many  a  golden 

phrase; 

Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland,  tilth  and  vineyard, 

hive  and  horse  and  herd; 
All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses  often  flowering  in  a  lonely 

word; 

Poet  of  the  happy   Tityrus   piping  underneath   his   beechen 

bowers ; 
Poet  of  the  poet-satyr  whom  the  laughing  shepherd  bound 

with  flowers; 

Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  glorying  in  the  blissful  ye£.rs  again 

to  be, 
Summers   of   the   snakeless   meadow,   unlaborious    earth   and 

oarless  sea; 

Thou  that  seest  Universal  Nature  moved  by  Universal  Mind; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness  at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human 
kind; 

Light  among  the  vanish'd   ages;   star  that   gildest   yet  this 

phantom  shore; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows,  kings  and  realms  that  pass 

to  rise  no  more; 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer,  fallen  every  purple  Ceesar's 

dome — 
Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm  sound  forever  of  Imperial 

Rome — 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  115 

Now  the   Rome  of  slaves   hath   perish'd,   and   the   Rome   of 

freemen  holds  her  place, 
I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island  sunder'd  once  from  all  the 

human  race, 

I   salute  thee,  Mantovano,   I   that  loved  thee  since  my  day 

began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure  ever  moulded  by  the  lips 

of  man. 

Alfred,   Lord   Tennyson    (1809-1892) 


The  next  three  poems  are  alike  in  their  reflection 
of  the  spirit  of  America,  and  alike  in  the  use  of  iambic 
tetrameter — a  line  as  characteristic  of  the  English  lyric 
as  iambic  pentameter  is  of  longer  poems.  An  excellent 
composition  may  be  very  short.  "The  Ballot"  is  by  a 
nearly  forgotten  poet  of  the  early  national  period  of 
American  literature  and  history. 


THE  BALLOT 

A  weapon  that  comes  down  as  still 
As  snowflakes  fall  upon  the  sod; 

But  executes  a  freeman's  will, 
As  lightning  does  the  will  of  God. 

John  Pierpont  (1785-1866) 


"Westward  Ho !"  commemorates  an  epic  phase  of 
American  civilization,  a  phase  neglected  by  the  New  Eng- 
land poets.  Its  author  was  a  native  Westerner  whose 
name  is  often  associated  with  that  of  Bret  Harte. 


116  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

WESTWARD  HO! 

What  strength!  what  strife!  what  rude  unrest! 

What  shocks!  what  half-shaped  armies  met! 

A  mighty  nation  moving  west, 

With  all  its  steely  sinews  set 

Against  the  living  forests.     Hear 

The  shouts,  the  shots  of  pioneer, 

The  rended  forests,  rolling  wheels, 

As  if  some  half-check'd  army  reels, 

Recoils,  redoubles,  comes  again, 

Loud  sounding  like  a  hurricane. 

O  bearded,  stalwart,  westmost  men, 

So  tower-like,  so  Gothic  built ! 

A  kingdom  won  without  the  guilt 

Of  studied  battle,  that  hath  been 

Your  blood's  inheritance  .  .  .  Your  heirs 

Know  not  your  tombs:  the  great  plowshares 

Cleave  softly  through  the  mellow  loam 

Where  you  have  made  eternal  home, 

And  set  no  sign.     Your  epitaphs 

Are  writ  in  furrows.     Beauty  laughs 

While  through  the  green  ways  wandering 

Beside  her  love,  slow  gathering 

White,  starry-hearted  May-time  blooms 

Above  your  lowly  leveled  tombs; 

And  then  below  the  spotted  sky 

She  stops,  she  leans,  she  wonders  why 

The  ground  is  heaved  and  broken  so, 

And  why  the  grasses  darker  grow 

And  droop  and  trail  like  wounded  wing. 

Yea,  Time,  the  grand  old  harvester, 
Has  gather'd  you  from  wood  and  plain. 
We  call  to  you  again,  again; 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  117 

The  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car 
Comes  back  in  answer.    Deep  and  wide 
The  wheels  of  progress  have  passed  on ; 
The  silent  pioneer  is  gone. 
His  ghost  is  moving  down  the  trees, 
And  now  we  push  the  memories 
Of  bluff,  bold  men  who  dared  and  died 
In  foremost  battle,  quite  aside. 
Cincinnatus  Heine  ("Joaquin")  Miller  (1841-1913) 

Though  less  imaginative  than  "Westward  Ho !",  "Un- 
manifest  Destiny"  is  more  vigorous,  and  its  phrasing  har- 
monizes more  effectively  with  its  metrical  structure. 
Hovey — poet,  translator,  collaborator  with  Bliss  Carman 
— belongs  with  Miller,  Aldrich,  Cawein,  and  a  few  others 
in  a  rather  distinguished  group  of  American  poets  whose 
careers  fell  in  the  fallow  period  about  the  close  of  the 
last  century. 

UNMANIFEST  DESTINY 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country,  far 

And  unforeseen  of  foe  or  friend, 
Beneath  what  unexpected  star, 

Compelled  to  what  unchosen  end, 

Across  the  sea  that  knows  no  beach 

The  Admiral  of  Nations  guides 
Thy  blind  obedient  keels  to  reach 

The  harbor  where  thy  future  rides! 

The  guns  that  spoke  at  Lexington 

Knew  not  that  God  was  planning  then 

The  trumpet  word  of  Jefferson 
To  bugle  forth  the  rights  of  men. 


118  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

To  them  that  wept  and  cursed  Bull  Run, 
What  was  it  but  despair  and  shame? 

Who  saw  behind  the  cloud  and  sun? 
Who  knew  that  God  was  in  the  flame? 

Had  not  defeat  upon  defeat, 

Disaster  on  disaster  come, 
The  slave's  emancipated  feet 

Had  never  marched  behind  the  drum. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  bends  our  deeds 
To  mightier  issues  than  we  planned; 

Each  son  that  triumphs,  each  that  bleeds, 
My  country,  serves  Its  dark  command. 

I  do  not  know  beneath  what  sky 
Nor  on  what  seas  shall  be  thy  fate; 

I  only  know  it  shall  be  high, 
I  only  know  it  shall  be  great. 

Richard  Hovey   (1864-1900} 

During  the  World  War  a  pamphlet  by  Kipling  entitled 
Twenty  Poems  had  an  enormous  sale  in  England.  The 
timely  "For  All  We  Have  and  Are"  sounded  a  clarion 
call  to  what  was,  for  England,  a  modern  crusade.  Kip- 
ling is  said  to  have  been  the  first  to  apply  the  epithet 
Hun  to  the  German.  "For  All  We  Have  and  Are," 
although  not  intended  for  singing,  has  a  chorus — a  char- 
acteristic of  many  of  its  author's  poems. 

FOR  ALL  WE  HAVE  AND  ARE 

1914 

For  all  we  have  and  are, 
For  all  our  children's  fate, 
Stand  up  and  take  the  war. 
The  Hun  is  at  the  gate ! 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  119 

Our  world  has  passed  away 

In  wantonness  o'erthrown. 

There  is  nothing  left  to-day 

But  steel  and  fire  and  stone ! 

Though  all  we  knew  depart, 
The  old  Commandments  stand: — 
"In  courage  keep  your  heart, 
In  strength  lift  up  your  hand." 

Once  more  we  hear  the  word 
That  sickened  earth  of  old : — 
"No  law  except  the  Sword 
Unsheathed  and  uncontrolled." 
Once  more  it  knits  mankind, 
Once  more  the  nations  go 
To  meet  and  break  and  bind 
A  crazed  and  driven  foe. 


Comfort,  content,  delight, 

The  age's  slow-bought  gain, 

They  shrivelled  in  a  night. 

Only  ourselves  remain 

To  face  the  naked  days 

In  silent  fortitude, 

Through  perils  and  dismays 

Renewed  and  re-renewed. 

Though  all  we  made  depart 
The  old  Commandments  stand: — 
"In  patience  keep  your  heart 
In  strength  lift  up  your  hand." 

No  easy  hope  or  lies 
Shall  bring  us  to  our  goal, 
But  iron  sacrifice 
Of  body,  will,  and  soul. 


120  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

There  is  but  one  task  for  all — 
One  life  for  each  to  give. 
What  stands  if  Freedom  fall? 
Who  dies  if  England  live? 

Rudyard  Kipling  (1865-  ) 

Whereas  Kipling's  poem  grew  directly  from  a  time  of 
national  crisis,  Burns's  patriotic  challenge  was  written 
centuries  after  the  event  which  it  commemorates. 
At  Bannockburn  the  Scots  under  Robert  Bruce  routed 
the  invading  army  of  Edward  II.  The  heroic  deeds  of 
Sir  William  Wallace  antedated  those  of  Bruce  by  a  score 
of  years.  This  entire  poem  is  made  a  unit  by  the  riming 
of  the  fourth  lines  of  the  stanzas. 

BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY  AT 
BANNOCKBURN 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  Victorie! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  pow'r — 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Free-man  stand,  or  Free-man  fa'? 
Let  him  follow  me! 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  121 

By  Oppression's  woes  and  pains ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow ! — 
Let  us  do  or  die ! 

Robert    Burns    (1759-1796') 

The  next  two  poems  reflect  different  phases  of  the  same 
struggle  and  afford  two  glimpses  of  the  same  place, 
Charleston,  S.  C.  The  first  poem,  vigorous  and  graphic, 
gives  the  impressions  of  a  British  sailor  who  made  the 
port  on  a  blockade  runner  in  the  last  days  of  the  Con- 
federacy. The  second  is  one  of  the  world's  finest  tributes, 
at  once  sweet  and  elevated,  to  the  heroic  dead.  Compare 
also  the  meters.  That  of  "Romance"  is  a  stanzaic  ar- 
rangement of  the  rimeless  trochaic  tetrameter  popularized 
by  Longfellow's  Hiawatha. 


ROMANCE 

"Talk  of  pluck!"  pursued  the  Sailor, 

Set  at  euchre  on  his  elbow, 
"I  was  on  the  wharf  at  Charleston, 

Just  ashore  from  off  the  runner. 

"It  was  gray  and  dirty  weather, 
And  I  heard  a  drum  go  rolling, 
Rub-a-dubbing  in  the  distance, 
Awful  dour-like  and  defiant. 


122  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"In  and  out  among  the  cotton, 
Mud,  and  chains,  and  stores,  and  anchors, 
Tramped  a  squad  of  battered  scarecrows- 
Poor  old  Dixie's  bottom  dollar! 

"Some  had  shoes,  but  all  had  rifles, 
Them  that  wasn't  bald  was  beardless, 
And  the  drum  was  rolling  'Dixie,' 
And  they  stepped  to  it  like  men,  sir ! 

"Rags  and  tatters,  belts  and  bayonets, 
On  they  swung,  the  drum  a-rolling, 
Mum  and  sour.     It  looked  like  fighting, 
And  they  meant  it  too,  by  thunder !" 

William  Ernest  Henley  (184.9-1903) 


AT  MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY* 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 

Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause; 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 

The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

*  This  selection  from  Timrod  is  reprinted  from  the  Memorial 
Edition  through  the  courtesy  of  the  holder  of  the  copyright.  Johnson 
Publishing  Company. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  123 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned. 

Henry  Timrod  (1829-1867} 

The  next  two  poems  afford  an  opportunity  for  com- 
paring a  Victorian  and  a  modern  poet  on  the  same  sub- 
ject. Christina  Rossetti  shared  the  inheritance  of  a 
family  of  genius.  "Song"  is  a  lyric  in  the  truest  sense; 
the  words  almost  sing  themselves.  Among  living  poets 
Sara  Teasdale  holds  a  high  place  for  her  shorter  lyrics. 
Note  the  effect  of  the  three  different  line-lengths  in  "I 
Shall  Not  Care." 

SONG 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree: 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain; 


124  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 
Christina  Georgina  Rossetti  (1830-1894) 


I  SHALL  NOT  CARE 

When  I  am  dead  and  over  me  bright  April 

Shakes  out  her  rain-drenched  hair; 
Though  you  should  lean  above  me  broken-hearted, 

I  shall  not  care. 

I  shall  have  peace,  as  leafy  trees  are  peaceful 

When  rain  bends  down  the  bough; 
And  I  shall  be  more  silent  and  cold-hearted 

Than  you  are  now. 

Sara  Teasdale  (1884-  ) 

We  quote  another  of  Sara  Teasdale's  compact  lyrics. 
"Wisdom'*  expresses  in  contemporary  terms  an  ancient 
cynical  thought. 

WISDOM 

When  I  have  ceased  to  break  my  wings 
Against  the  faultiness  of  things, 
And  learned  that  compromises  wait 
Behind  each  hardly  opened  gate, 
When  I  can  look  life  in  the  eyes, 
Grown  calm  and  very  coldly  wise, 
Life  will  have  given  me  the  Truth 
And  taken  in  exchange — my  youth. 

Sara  Teasdale  (1884-  ) 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  125 

The  meter  of  the  preceding  selection  demands  special 
notice.  The  stanzaic  unit,  consisting  of  two  riming  lines 
of  iambic  tetrameter,  is  known  as  the  short  or  octosyllabic 
couplet.  This  meter  has  been  the  vehicle  of  many  long 
narrative  poems  from  Chaucer's  time  to  the  present  day. 
It  is  perhaps  best  known  as  the  favorite  meter  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  Variety  is  achieved  by  an  occasional  ter- 
cet and  sometimes  by  a  quatrain  riming  abab  or  abba. 
These  irregularities  are  illustrated  in  the  famous  passages 
below: 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress  trees ! 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 
The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own! 
From  "Snowbound,"  by  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land? 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, — 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 


126  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 
From  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  by  Sir  Walter  Scott 

Arnold's  elegy  on  Wordsworth,  "Memorial  Verses,  April, 
1850,"  too  long  to  quote  here,  affords  excellent  oppor- 
tunity for  studying  the  short  couplet. 

In  the  following  poem  is  seen  a  departure  from  the 
usual  custom  of  printing  the  couplets  continuously.  Note 
the  suggestive  power  of  the  couplet  stanzas. 

DEAD  MEN  TELL  NO  TALES 

They  say  that  dead  men  tell  no  tales! 

Except  of  harges  with  red  sails 
And  sailors  mad  for  nightingales; 

Except  of  jongleurs  stretched  at  ease 
Beside  old  highways  through  the  trees; 

Except  of  dying  moons  that  break 
The  hearts  of  lads  who  lie  awake ; 

Except  of  fortresses  in  shade, 

And  heroes  crumbled  and  betrayed. 

But  dead  men  tell  no  tales,  they  say! 

Except  old  tales  that  burn  away 
The  stifling  tapestries  of  day: 

Old  tales  of  life,  of  love  and  hate, 
Of  time  and  space,  and  will,  and  fate. 
Haniel  Long  (18S8-  ) 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  127 

Night  and  sleep  vie  with  death  as  favorite  themes  of 
poets.  Shakespeare's  "sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravelled 
sleeve  of  care"  is  one  of  more  than  seventy  passages  on 
sleep  in  Bartlett's  Familiar  Quotations.  The  poem  below 
may  be  compared  with  William  Collins's  "Ode  to  Eve- 
ning," Blake's  "Night,"  and  Shelley's  "To  Night." 

HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT 

I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls ! 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there, — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night!  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 


128  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Peace !    Peace !    Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer ! 

Descend   with   broad-winged   flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (1807-1882) 

After  reading  the  poems  above  and  below  this  para- 
graph, one  may  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  lovers  of  Poe's 
melody  have  decried  Longfellow,  while  admirers  of  Long- 
fellow's homely  philosophy  have  approved  the  epithet 
"jingle  man"  which  Emerson  applied  to  Poe.  "To  One  in 
Paradise"  presents  no  uniformity  in  rime.  To  apply  a 
term  suggested  by  C.  Alphonso  Smith,  the  poet  has  here 
"liquefied'  the  stanza,  or  has,  in  other  words,  made  it  a 
more  flexible  unit. 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine: 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"On!  on!" — but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  129 

For,  alas !  alas !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er! 

No  more — no  more — no  more — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar. 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  (1809-1849) 

We  quote  now  a  poem  of  irregular  meter.  "Kubla 
Khan"  stands  with  Keats's  "Hyperion"  among  the 
most  interesting  fragmentary  poems  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Coleridge  was,  like  his  friend  DeQuincey,  a  vic- 
tim of  the  opium  habit.  One  afternoon,  after  taking  a 
dose  of  the  drug,  he  fell  asleep  while  reading  from  a  book 
of  Oriental  travels  a  description  of  the  palace  of  an 
emperor,  the  Khan  Kubla.  Coleridge  claimed  to  have 
composed  while  asleep  several  hundred  lines ;  some  he 
wrote  down  immediately  on  awaking,  the  others  he  was, 
after  an  interruption,  unable  to  recall.  There  is  no  good 
reason  for  doubting  Coleridge's  account  of  the  composi- 
tion of  the  poem,  for  similar  instances  are  well  authenti- 
cated, and  the  poem  itself  has  a  dreamy  quality  difficult 
to  counterfeit.  The  variation  in  rime,  in  length  of  line, 
in  vowels  and  in  consonants,  is  worthy  of  serious  study  on 
the  part  of  the  student  who  desires  to  know  how  the  poet 


130  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

attains  various  effects.  "Strange,'*  says  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  in  his  article  on  Poetry  in  the  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,  "that  it  is  not  in  an  ode  at  all  but  in  this 
unique  lyric  'Kubla  Khan,'  descriptive  of  imaginative 
landscape,  that  an  English  poet  has  at  last  conquered  the 
crowning  difficulty  of  writing  in  irregular  meters.  Hav- 
ing broken  away  from  all  restraints  of  couplet  and 
stanza — having  caused  his  rhymes  and  pauses  to  fall  just 
where  and  just  when  the  emotion  demands  that  they 
should  fall,  scorning  the  exigencies  of  makeshift  no  less 
than  the  exigencies  of  stanza — he  has  found  what  every 
writer  of  irregular  English  odes  has  sought  in  vain,  a 
music  as  entrancing  as  natural,  and  at  the  same  time  as 
inscrutable,  as  the  music  of  the  winds  or  of  the  sea." 

KUBLA  KHAN 

In  Xanadu  did   Kubla   Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 
A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  131 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome !  those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 


132  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !    Beware  ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (1772-183  Ji) 

This  chapter  may  well  be  concluded  with  Shelley's  "To 
a  Skylark,"  a  poem  which  combines  the  iambic  and  tro- 
chaic meters  in  an  effective  lyric  manner.  Because  of 
their  musical  notes  and  their  ability  to  rise  above  the 
earth,  birds  have  always  appealed  to  the  imagination  of 
poets.  The  nightingale  has  been  celebrated  in  entire 
poems  or  in  famous  passages  by  Milton,  Mark  Akenside, 
Coleridge,  Keats,  Matthew  Arnold,  and  Robert  Bridges. 
The  popular  American  mocking-bird  is  the  subject  of 
poems  by  Lanier,  Walt  Whitman,  and  Albert  Pike.  The 
later  of  Wordsworth's  two  poems  on  the  skylark  affords 
a  marked  contrast  with  the  poem  below.  While  Shelley 
admires  the  bird's  ability  to  escape  from  the  earth, 
Wordsworth  sees  it  as  a 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam; 

to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home  ! 


TO  A  SKYLARK 


Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In    profuse    strains     of    unpremeditated    art. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  133 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 
\ 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen, — but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see — we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As  when  Night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 


134  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Like  a  Poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love, — which  overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  Sprite  or  Bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


THE  DUPLE  METERS  135 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields  or  waves  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest — but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream — 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


136  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow 
The  world  should  listen  then — as  I  am  listening  now. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  (1792-1822) 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  TRIPLE  METERS 

Before  the  poet  begins  to  write  ...  he  should  ask  himself 
whether  his  natural  impulse  is  towards  the  weighty  iambic 
movement,  whose  primary  function  is  to  state,  or  towards 
those  lighter  movements  which  we  still  call,  for  want  of  more 
convenient  words,  anapaestic  and  dactylic,  whose  primary 
function  is  to  suggest. — Theodore  Watts-Dunton  in  "Poetry  " 
Encyclopedia  Britannica  (Eleventh  Edition^) 

IN  discussing  the  elementary  phenomena  of  English 
poetics,  we  have  had  occasion  to  explain  briefly  the  triple 
measures,  anapestic  and  dactylic.  The  main  purpose  of 
this  chapter  is  to  group  representative  poems  with  the 
view  of  affording  a  somewhat  extended  acquaintance  with 
the  use  and  possibilities  of  these  rhythms.  For  reasons 
explained  in  the  preceding  chapter,  poems  purely  ana- 
pestic or  dactylic  are  rare.  The  movement  of  a  poem  is, 
however,  decidedly  triple  when  fifty  per  cent  of  the  feet 
contain  two  unstressed  syllables. 

A  poem  in  a  triple  meter  tends,  in  unskilled  hands,  to 
be  wordy,  for  important  thoughts  are  carried  chiefly  by 
accented  syllables  of  which  it  has  a  relative  scarcity. 
With  appropriate  subject-matter  and  in  the  hands  of 
true  poets  the  triple  rhythms  lend  themselves,  however, 
to  the  production  of  remarkable  word  music.  In  these 
measures  Shelley  and  Swinburne  achieved  faultless  works 

137 


138  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

of  art,  and  the  major  nineteenth  century  poets  were  gen- 
erally successful. 

The  anapestic  meter  seems  especially  adapted  to  sub- 
jects involving  movement  or  action.  We  quote  a  poem 
which  in  content  and  spirit  is  well  suited  to  the  expression 
it  receives.  Few  widely  known  poems — outside  of  light 
verse — are  as  purely  anapestic  as  the  one  below.  Sen- 
nacherib was  an  Assyrian  king  who  invaded  Palestine. 
Ashur  and  Baal  were  high  gods  in  the  religion  of  the 
Assyrians.  See  2  Kings,  xix:35. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
The  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown. 
The  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride ; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  139 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 

George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  Byron  (1788-1824.) 

Byron's  "O  Talk  Not  to  Me"  has  a  spirited  anapestic 
movement.  Note  the  characteristic  iambic  substitutions  in 
the  first  feet  of  the  lines.  In  the  Golden  Treasury,  Pal- 
grave  places  this  poem  directly  after  Coleridge's  "Love," 
which  begins 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 


O  TALK  NOT  TO  ME 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty, 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is  wrinkled  ? 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled: 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary — 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  than  can  only  give  glory  ? 


140  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Oh  FAME  ! — if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my  story, 
I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  Byron  (1788-18&4.) 

In  the  case  of  "The  Poplar  Field"  it  is  to  b«  doubted 
if  the  anapestic  is  the  meter  best  adapted  to  the  subject. 
The  key-note  is  found  in  the  transitory  quality  of  human 
joy  and  human  life — a  subject  which  seems  to  demand  a 
more  sober  rhythm.  On  the  contrary,  Tennyson,  refer- 
ring to  this  poem,  said  to  Palgrave:  "People  nowadays, 
I  believe,  hold  this  style  and  meter  light ;  I  wish  there 
were  any  who  could  put  words  together  with  such  ex- 
quisite flow  and  evenness."  The  river  Ouse,  here  referred 
to,  passes  near  the  scene  of  the  author's  retirement  in 
northern  Buckinghamshire. 

THE  POPLAR  FIELD 

The  poplars  are  fell'd;  farewell  to  the  shade 
And  the  whispering  sound  of'  the  cool  colonnade ; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  first  took  a  view 
Of  my  favourite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew: 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once  lent  me  a  shade. 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  141 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat, 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat; 
And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 
And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 
With  a  turf  on  my  breast  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 
Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 

'Tis  a  sight  to  engage  me,  if  anything  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasure  of  man; 
Though  his  life  be  a  dream,  his  enjoyments,  I  see, 
Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than  he. 

William  Cozvper  (1731-1800) 


The  masterly  "A  Forsaken  Garden"  affords  an  ex- 
cellent contrast  with  the  poem  just  quoted.  Here  the 
emphasis  is  not  on  anything  human;  it  is  on  a  picture 
of  desolation.  The  rushing  iambic-anapestic  rhythm  is 
exceedingly  effective,  but  the  author  relies  chiefly  on  other 
devices  of  poetry.  It  is  not  altogether  alliteration  which 
gives  the  subtle  quality  to  lines  like 

When  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the  graves  of  its  roses. 

The  explanation  lies  largely  in  the  skilful  choice  of  the 
vowels  in  the  accented  syllables.  No  lover  of  supreme 
poetic  technique  should  fail  to  read  in  this  connection 
the  choruses  of  Swinburne's  Atalanta  m  Calydon,  which 
stands  with  Milton's  Samson  Agonistes  and  Shelley's 
Prometheus  Unbound  in  the  great  trio  of  English  imita- 
tions of  ancient  Greek  drama. 


142  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland, 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward  and  lee, 

Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 
The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 

A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 

Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the  graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken, 

To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  land. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken, 

Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's  hand? 
So  long  have  the  gray  bare  walks  lain  guestless, 

Through  branches  and  briars  if  a  man  make  way, 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 

That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  rifled 

Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of  time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken ; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken, 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  prest  of  the  foot  that  falls  not; 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are  dry; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightingale  calls  not, 

Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to  reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song; 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  143 

The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 

One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weeping, 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 

Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  "Look  thither," 

Did  he  whisper?     "Look  forth  from  the  flowers  to  the  sea; 

For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the  rose-blossoms  wither, 
And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die — but  we?" 

And  the  same  wind  sang  and  the  same  waves  whitened, 
And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were  shed, 

In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that  had  lightened, 
Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  loved  their   life  through,  and  then   went  whither? 

And  were  one  to  the  end — but  what  end  who  knows? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither, 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love  them? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them, 
Or  the  wave. 


All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons  hereafter, 

Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or  weep, 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and  laughter 
We  shall  sleep. 


144  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise  up  never, 

Who  have  left  naught  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground  growing, 

While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall  be; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble, 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 
Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides  humble 

The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink; 
Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 

Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand  spread, 
As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 
Death  lies  dead. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  (1837-1909) 

The  Napoleonic  wars,  like  all  great  struggles,  left  an 
impress  on  literature.  The  great  world  novels,  Vanity 
Fair  and  Les  Miserables,  have  their  Waterloo  episodes. 
Among  the  most  quoted  parts  of  Byron's  Childe  Harold's 
Pilgrimage  are  the  Waterloo  stanzas.  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  each  vibrated  like  a  harp  to  certain  phases  of 
the  contemporary  world  struggle.  Perhaps  the  best 
known  short  poem  inspired  by  this  war  was  written  by 
Charles  Wolfe,  a  man  famous  for  nothing  else.  "The 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna"  combines  sol- 
dierly dignity  with  simplicity.  Its  keynote  is  the  same 
as  that  of  Rupert  Brooke's  great  sonnet,  "The  Soldier." 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  145 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 
AT  CORUNNA 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corpse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  Warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
But  we  steadfastly  gaz'd  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  Foe  and  the  Stranger  would  tread  o'er 
his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


146  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring: 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe  (1791-1823} 

The  anapests  in  "Prospice"  assist  in  conveying  the 
note  of  anticipated  triumph.  Mrs.  Browning  had  been 
dead  but  a  few  months  when  the  poem  was  written.  When 
her  husband,  late  in  life,  penned  his  swan-song,  the  "Epi- 
logue" to  Asolando,  his  view  had  not  changed.  Browning, 
the  poet  for  those  growing  old,  vigorously  opposes 
Byron's  thesis  that 

The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory. 

For  a  virile  philosophical  poem  glorifying  the  latter  part 
of  life,  see  "Rabbi  Ben  Ezra."  Prospice  means  look  for- 
ward. 

PROSPICE 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  147 

For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers   fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forebore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 

No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness,  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest! 

Robert  Browning  (1812-1889} 

"Prospice"  and  "Coronach"  afford  a  striking  contrast 
in  thought.  Scott,  in  this  song  from  The  Lady  of  the 
Lake,  is  not,  however,  giving  his  own  views  of  death.  The 
work  of  a  narrative  poet  may  be  nearly  if  not  wholly 
impersonal.  The  lyric  poet  may,  on  the  other  hand,  be 
considered  to  hold  the  views  he  expresses  in  a  subjective 
work.  That  he  may  sometimes  portray  opposite  moods  is, 
nevertheless,  forcefully  illustrated  by  the  titles  of  two  of 
Tennyson's  poems,  "Nothing  Will  Die"  and  "All  Things 
Will  Die."  The  word  coronach,  Gaelic  in  origin,  means  a 
song  of  lamentation ;  correi  is  Scottish  for  a  hollow  in  the 
side  of  a  hill ;  cumber,  distress  or  difficulty. 


148  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

CORONACH 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a   summer-dried   fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever! 

Sir  Walter  Scott  (1771-1888) 

The  next  two  poems,  one  very  short  and  one  rather 
long,  are  both  anapestic.  While  Shelley's  "The  Cloud" 
is  a  complete  poem,  "The  Year's  at  the  Spring"  is  only  a 
part,  the  famous  song  of  the  girl  from  the  silk-mills  in 
Browning's  drama,  Pippa  Passes. 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  149 

THE  YEAR'S  AT  THE  SPRING 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn: 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's   right   with  the  world! 

Robert  Browning  (1812-1889) 

"The  Cloud"  has  often  been  quoted  to  illustrate  the 
anapestic  meter.  The  internal  rimes  contribute  abun- 
dantly to  the  melody.  Note  the  numerous  iambic  feet  even 
in  a  poem  extremely  anapestic  in  its  effect. 

THE  CLOUD 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 


150  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  all  the  night,  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning  my   pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits; 
Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.     . 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  151 

And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, — 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I  march, 

With   hurricane,   fire,   and   snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  can  not  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 


152  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley   (1792-1822) 

It  has  been  explained  why,  in  English,  trochaic  verse 
is  less  natural  and  anapestic  verse  less  frequent  than 
iambic.  Dactylic  verse,  being  at  once  descending  and 
triple,  combines  the  difficulties  of  trochaic  and  anapestic 
verse,  and  is  not  very  common.  Triple  rime  is  very  rare, 
yet  triple  rime  is  a  requisite  of  pure  dactylic  verse,  if  it  is 
to  rime  at  all. 

ax      x    \    a        x        x   \   a     x      x    \    a      x     x 
Barney  McGee,  there's  no  end  of  good  luck  in  you, 
Will-o-the-wisp,  with  a  flicker  of  Puck  in  you, 
Wild  as  a  bull-pup,  and  all  of  his  pluck  in  you.  .  .  . 

From  "Barney  McGee,"  by  Richard  Hovey 

Verse  on  such  a  pattern  as  this  could  scarcely  be  more 
than  a  tour  de  force,  but  the  allowing  of  catalexis  (omis- 
sion of  unaccented  syllable  or  syllables  in  the  last  foot  of  a 
descending  line)  makes  dactylic  verse  possible.  The  last 
foot  of  a  line  is  almost  always  a  trochee  or  a  solitary 
accented  syllable.  The  two  types  of  line  are  illustrated  in 
this  passage  from  the  "Boat  Song"  in  Scott's  Lady  of 
the  Lake' 

a  x  x  a  x  x  \  a  x  x  \  a  x 
Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances! 

a  x  x  a  xx\axx\a 

Honored  and  blessed  be  the  evergreen  Pine. 

Tennyson's  "A  Welcome  to  Alexandra:  March  7,  1863" 
has  lines  which  exhibit  a  processional  dignity  similar  to 
that  of  these  lines  from  Scott. 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  153 

The  poem  below  is  dactylic.  The  lines  are  all  dimeters, 
pure  or  catalectic.  Note  the  irregularities,  some  but  not 
all  of  which  can  be  explained  by  considering  the  lines 
continuous  (e.g.  Dreadfully  staring  through  |  muddy 
im  |  purity). 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

7  '*>..  Y     'X. 

One  more  Unfortunate 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate 

Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments, 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
Whilst  the   wave   constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly, 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her — 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful: 
Past  all  dishonour, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 


154  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of   Eve's   family — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so   clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses, 
Where  was  her  home? 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun ! 
Oh !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,   motherly, 

Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  155 

From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Any  where,  any  where 

Out  of  the  world! 

In  she  plunged  boldly — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly. 


156  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behaviour, 
And  leaving  with  meekness 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

Thomas  Hood  (1799-1845} 

"The  Lost  Leader,"  a  dactylic  poem  the  meter  of 
which  is  less  obvious  than  that  of  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs," 
was  written  shortly  after  the  venerable  Wordsworth 
had,  in  1843,  been  made  poet  laureate.  Wordsworth  as 
a  young  man  had  been  a  radical,  and  the  youthful  Brown- 
ing for  the  moment  misjudged  the  sobering  of  age  as  a 
selling  out  to  mammon.  The  conferring  of  the  laurel 
traditionally  presupposed  official  poems;  but,  in  justice 
to  Wordsworth,  it  must  be  said  that  he  accepted  the 
honor  on  the  express  condition  that  nothing  be  expected 
from  him.  The  phrase  "a  handful  of  silver"  refers  to  the 
meagerness  of  the  poet's  pension  in  comparison  with  the 
rewards  lavished  on  other  public  men.  Members  of  some 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  157 

governmental  orders — the  French  Legion  of  Honor,  for 
instance — today  wear  ribbons  or  rosettes  in  the  button- 
holes of  their  civilian  dress.  For  another  famous  poetic 
attack  of  one  great  man  upon  another,  see  "Ichabod" 
in  which  Whittier  flayed  Webster.  For  an  example  of 
ferocious  diatribe,  see  William  Watson's  sonnet  "To  the 
Sultan." 

THE  LOST  LEADER 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed; 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,   Shelley,  were  with  us, — they   watch   from 

their  graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 
We  shall  march  prospering, — not  through  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire: 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devils'-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God ! 


158  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Life's  night  begins :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him, — strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne ! 

Robert  Browning  (1812-1889} 

In  the  above  dactylic  poem,  the  reader  may  have  noticed 
a  frequent  divergence  between  the  metrical  and  the  sense 
grouping  of  the  unaccented  syllables.  Consider  the  lines: 

We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye. 

The  phrases  followed  him  and  honored  him  are  not  only 
dactylic  by  scansion,  but  are  units  in  speech-formation. 
On  the  contrary,  lived  in  his  is  the  scansion  unit,  while 
in  his  mild  is  the  thought  unit  centered  around  the  one 
stress.  If  the  thought-grouping  of  syllables  were  the 
basis  of  scansion,  much  dactylic  poetry  could  be  classified 
as  anapestic  with  a  single  accented  syllable  constituting 
the  first  foot  of  each  line: 

a    \    x     x       a    \    x        x    a\x  x      a 
Lived  in   his  mild  and  magnificent  eye 

The  greatest  influence  toward  making  the  dactylic  meter 
seem  ascending  is,  nevertheless,  the  frequent  substitution 
of  a  trochee  in  the  first  foot  of  an  iambic  or  an  anapestic 
line.  The  reader,  accustomed  to  ascending  meters,  senses 
the  first  part  of  a  dactylic  line  not  as  axx  a,  but  as 
ax  |  xa.  For  the  purpose  of  metrical  study  and  descrip- 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  159 

tion  it  is  best  to  adhere  to  the  traditional  dactylic 
scansion,  but  the  legitimacy  of  the  alternative  markings 
should  not  be  ignored.  Noyes's  "Unity"  affords  a  good 
illustration ;  it  is  dactylic ;  but,  if  one  reads  it  slowly,  the 
natural  grouping  of  words  will  show  that,  barring  per- 
haps the  first  word  in  each  line,  the  movement  of  the  poem 
is  ascending. 

UNITY 

<\  '  "  4    x        --:">  <.«..    ,*v       O^ 

Heart  of  my  heart,  the  world  is  young; 

LdVe  lies  Bidden  in  every  rose ! 
Every  song  that  the  skylark  sung 

Once,  we  thought,  must  come  to  a  close: 
Now  we  know  the  spirit  of  song, 

Song  that  is  merged  in  the  chant  of  the  whole, 
Hand  in  hand  as  we  wander  along, 

What  should  we  doubt  of  the  years  that  roll? 

Heart  of  my  heart,  we  can  not  die! 

Love  triumphant  in  flower  and  tree, 
Every  life  that  laughs  at  the  sky 

Tells  us  nothing  can  cease  to  be: 
One,  we  are  one  with  a  song  today, 

One  with  the  clover  that  scents  the  wold, 
One  with  the  Unknown,  far  away, 

One  with  the  stars,  when  earth  grows  old. 

Heart  of  my  heart,  we  are  one  with  the  wind, 

One  with  the  clouds  that  are  whirled  o'er  the  lea, 
One  in  many,  O  broken  and  blind, 

One  as  the  waves  are  at  one  with  the  sea ! 
Ay!  when  life  seems  scattered  apart, 

Darkens,  ends  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 
One,  we  are  one,  O  heart  of  my  heart, 

One,  still  one,  while  the  world  grows  old. 

Alfred  Noyes   (1880-  ) 


160  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

What  has  just  been  said  of  the  dactylic  rhythm  is  not 
usually  true  of  its  sister  descending  rhythm,  the  trochaic, 
except  in  the  case  of  some  abnormally  long  lines.  The 
number  of  English  dissyllables  of  ax  pronunciation  makes* 
the  trochaic,  in  fact,  a  not  unnatural  rhythm: 

ax  a    x     a     x 

Happy   field   or   mossy  cavern, 

ax  a      x         a    x 

Choicer  than   the   Mermaid   Tavern. 

The  rollicking  song  from  Noyes's  Tales  of  the  Mer- 
maid Tavern  is  dactylic.  Old  Saint  Paul's,  destroyed 
in  the  fire  of  1666,  stood  on  the  site  of  the  present 
cathedral,  which  was  designed  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren 
and  completed  in  1719.  The  Mermaid,  a  famous  tavern 
in  Elizabethan  London,  has  resulted  in  at  least  two  other 
good  poems,  one  by  Theodore  Watts-Dunton  and  one — 
from  which  we  have  just  quoted — by  Keats. 

SEVEN  WISE  MEN 

Seven  wise  men  on  an  old  black  settle, 

Seven  wise  men  of  the  Mermaid  Inn, 
Ringing  blades  of  the  one  right  metal 

What  is  the  best  that  a  blade  can  win  ? 
Bread  and  cheese  and  a  few  small  kisses? 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Would  you  take  them — you? 
— Ay,  if  Dame  Venus  would  add  to  her  blisses, 

A  roaring  fire  and  a  friend  or  two ! 

Chorus : 

Up  now,  answer  me,  tell  me  true ! — 
— Ay,  if  the  hussy  would  add  to  her  blisses 
A  roaring  fire  and  a  friend  or  two ! 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  161 

What  will  you  say  when  the  world  is  dying? 

What,  when  the  last  wild  midnight  falls 
Dark,  too  dark  for  the  bat  to  be  flying 

Round  the  fuins  of  old  St.  Paul's? 
What  will  be  last  of  the  lights  to  perish? 

What  but  the  little  red  ring  we  knew, 
Lighting  the  hands  and  the  hearts  that  cherish 

A  fire,  a  fire,  and  a  friend  or  two ! 

Chorus : 

Up  now,  answer  me,  tell  me  true ! 
What  will  be  last  of  the  stars  to  perish? 
— The  fire  that  lighteth  a  friend  or  two ! 

Up  now,  answer  me  on  your  mettle, 

Wisest  man  of  the  Mermaid  Inn, 
Soberest  man  on  the  old  black  settle, 

Out  with  the  truth !     It  was  never  a  sin. — 
Well,  if  God  saved  me  alone  of  the  seven, 

Telling  me  you  must  be  damned,  or  you, 
"This,"  I  would  say,  "this  is  hell,  not  heaven 

Give  me  the  fire  and  a  friend  or  two." 

Chorus : 

Steel  was  never  so  ringing  true: 
"God,"  we  would  say,  "this  is  hell,  not  heaven ! 
Give  us  the  fire,  and  a  friend  or  two !" 

Alfred  Noyes  (1880-  ) 

The  above  poem  exhibits  an  effective  use  of  the  refrain. 
The  phrase  "fire  and  a  friend  or  two"  becomes,  with  each 
repetition,  more  intense  in  its  meaning.  Similar  refrains 
are  the  "Nevermore"  of  Foe's  "Raven"  and  the  "God 
save  the  Tsar !"  of  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich's  "Batuschka." 

Inspired  by  the  Latin  and  Greek  epic   masterpieces, 


162  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

writers  in  English  have,  as  has  been  stated,  often  sought 
to  develop  in  English  an  imitation  of  the  classical  dactylic 
hexameter.  Undoubtedly,  the  best  known  of  the  resulting 
poems  is  Longfellow's  Evangeline,  the  romantic  subject 
of  which  was  considered  by  Hawthorne  and  Whittier 
before  it  was  used  by  Longfellow.  The  subjoined  passage, 
the  prelude  to  the  narrative,  sets  the  key  for  the  poem. 

From  EVANGELINE 

This  is  the  forest  primeval.     The  murmuring  pines  and  the 
t    hemlocks,  ;* 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the 

twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their  bosoms. 
Loud    from   its   rocky   caverns,   the   deep-voiced   neighboring 

ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the 

forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval ;  but  where  are  the  hearts  that 

beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland  the  voice 

of  the  huntsman? 
Where   is   the   thatch-roofed   village,   the   home    of   Acadian 

farmers, — 

Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the  wood- 
lands, 
Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an  image  of 

heaven  ? 
Waste   are   those   pleasant   farms,   and   the    farmers    forever 

departed ! 
Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty  blasts  of 

October 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  163 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them  far  o'er 

the  ocean. 
Naught   but   tradition    remains    of    the    beautiful    village    of 

Grand-Pre. 
Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  endures,  and  is 

patient, 

Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman's  devo- 
tion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition,  still  sung  by  the  pines  of  the 

forest ; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the  happy. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (1807-1882) 

Longfellow,  imitating  Goethe's  practice  in  Hermann 
and  Dorothea,  as  well  as  classical  models,  substituted  in 
unaccented  positions  one  syllable  for  two  when  he  consid- 
ered the  one  "long"  enough — for  example  garments  in  line 
2.  The  experiment  may  be  regarded  as  a  success,  but,  as 
Poe  pointed  out,  there  are  prosy  passages — for  instance, 
"men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers."  Treatises  on 
versification  contain  references  to  other  poems  in  this 
meter  and  to  imitations  of  many  other  classical  meters. 
With  the  possible  exception  of  the  dactylic  hexameter, 
however,  all  these  exotic  forms  have  failed  to  take  vig- 
orous root  in  English. 

We  quote  a  poem  showing  very  varied  effects  in  triple 
rhythm.  Sidney  Lanier  was  a  poet,  a  musician,  and  a 
critic  of  verse.  Habersham  and  Hall  are  Georgia  counties 
on  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Chattahoochee.  As  an  ex- 
pression of  American  idealism,  compare  this  poem  with 
Longfellow's  "Excelsior."  For  the  successful  employ- 
ment of  onomatopoeia,  compare  it  with  the  lyric  portions 
of  Tennyson's  "The  Brook." 


164  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall. 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the"  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  willful  waterweeds  held  me  in  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  165 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 

The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook-stone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone, 
— Crystals  clear,  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But,  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
Avail:  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

Sidney  Lanier  (1842-1881) 

In  the  next  selection  the  two  dactylic  lines  do  not 
detract  from  the  anapestic  movement.  Gul  is  a  Persian 
word  for  the  rose.  This  passage  is  supposed  to  have  been 
suggested  to  Byron  by  Mignon's  song,  "Kennst  du  das 
Land  wo  die  Citronen  bluhn,"  in  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister. 

From  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 

Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 

Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime? 


166  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine ; 
Where  the  light  wing's  of  Zephyr,  oppress'd  with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute: 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine? 
"Pis  the  clime  of  the  East;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done? 
Oh !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell. 
George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  Byron  (1788-1824) 

The  meter  of  "The  Knight's  Tomb"  is  almost  too  ir- 
regular for  classification.  Gilman,  a  biographer  of 
Coleridge,  states  that  the  poem  was  composed  "as  an 
experiment  in  metre" — a  type  of  experiment  that 
Coleridge  delighted  in.  Note  how  the  triple  rhythm 
merges  into  a  movement  of  exceedingly  slow  tempo.  In 
Ivanhoe  and  Castle  Dangerous  Scott  misquoted  ("The 
knights  are  dust,"  etc.)  and  popularized  the  last  three 
lines. 

THE  KNIGHT'S  TOMB 

Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn? 

Where  may  the  grave  of  that  good  man  be? — 

By  the  side  of  a  spring,  on  the  breast  of  Helvellyn, 

Under  the  twigs  of  a  young  birch  tree ! 

The  oak  that  in  summer  was  sweet  to  hear, 

And  rustled  its  leaves  in  the  fall  of  the  year, 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  167 

And  whistled  and  roar'd  in  the  winter  alone, 

Is  gone, — and  the  birch  in  its  stead  is  grown. — 

The  Knight's  bones  are  dust, 

And  his  good  sword  rust; — 

His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  I  trust. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  (1772-1884} 

As  a  tribute  to  the  power  of  poetry  O'Shaughnessy's 
exuberantly  rhythmical  "Ode"  surpasses  Tennyson's 
widely  known  "The  Poet."  The  complete  "Ode"  consists 
of  nine  stanzas,  but  is  usually  cut  to  three.  Nineveh  was 
the  ancient  capital  of  Assyria;  Babel  was  the  tower  (see 
Genesis  xi,  9)  at  the  building  of  which  there  was  a  con- 
fusion of  tongues. 

ODE 

We  are  the  music-makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams; — 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams: 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of  the  world  forever,  it  seems. 

With  wonderful  deathless  ditties 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory: 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  a  kingdom  down. 


168  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  in  our  mirth; 
And  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 
Arthur  William  Edgar  O'Shaughnessy    (1844-1881) 

"Break,  Break,  Break,"  a  lament  for  Arthur  Henry 
Hallam,  was  intended  as  a  part  of  In  Memoriam,  but, 
because  of  its  different  meter,  was  printed  separately. 
The  first  line  presents  the  phenomenon  of  omitting  all  the 
unaccented  syllables.  Whether  the  omissions  be  explained 
on  the  ground  of  pauses  or  on  the  ground  of  the  pro- 
longation of  the  accented  syllables,  the  three-word  lines 
are  trimeters — as  are  the  other  lines  of  the  poem. 
"Break,  Break,  Break"  proves  that  a  poet's  mind  may 
transcend  his  surroundings.  "It  was  made,"  says  Tenny- 
son, "in  a  Lincolnshire  lane  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
between  blossoming  hedges." 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea, 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O,  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  169 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 
But  O,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Alfred,   Lord   Tennyson    (1809-1892} 

Modern  poets  show  an  occasional  use  of  accented 
syllables  in  pairs  and  even  in  threes — traits  illustrated  in 
the  two  following  poems.  The  marked  words  in  these 
lines  could  hardly  be  read  except  as  indicated : 

a      a 
I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree. 

a  a      a 

I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

a>         a  a        a  a          a 

It's  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds'  cries. 

This  variation  from  the  traditions  of  English  meter  is 
one  symptom  of  the  poetic  iconoclasm  of  today.  In  these 
poems  it  is  well  handled  and  apparently  has  possibilities. 
Like  so  much  that  is  seemingly  new,  it  is  simply  very  old. 
For  example,  the  xxaa  of  it's  a  fine  land  was  the  Latin 
foot,  ionic  a  minore. 

THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 

And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey-bee, 

And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 


170  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes  dropping 

slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  morning  to  where  the  cricket 

sings ; 

There  midnight's  all  a-glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 

I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore ; 

While  I   stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavement  gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

William  Butler  Yeats   (1865-) 


THE  WEST  WIND 

It's  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds'  cries; 
I  never  hear  the  west  wind  but  tears  are  in  my  eyes ; 
For  it  comes  from  the  west  lands,  the  old  brown  hills, 
And  April's  in  the  west  wind,  and  daffodils. 

It's  a  fine  land,  the  west  land,  for  hearts  as  tired  as  mine, 
Apple  orchards  blossom  there,  and  the  air's  like  wine. 
There  is  cool  green  grass  there,  where  men  may  lie  at  rest, 
And  the  thrushes  are  in  song  there,  fluting  from  the  nest. 

"Will  you  not  come  home,   brother?      You  have  been   long 

away. 

It's  April,  and  blossom  time,  and  white  is  the  spray; 
And  bright  is  the  sun,  brother,  and  warm  is  the  rain, — 
Will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  home  to  us  again? 

"The  young  corn  is  green,  brother,  where  the  rabbits  run, 
It's  blue  sky,  and  white  clouds,  and  warm  rain  and  sun. 
It's  a  song  to  a  man's  soul,  brother,  fire  to  a  man's  brain, 
To  hear  the  wild  bees  and  see  the  merry  spring  again. 


THE  TRIPLE  METERS  171 

"Larks  are  singing  in  the  west,  brother,  above  the  green  wheat, 
So  will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  and  rest  your  tired  feet? 
I've  a  balm  for  bruised  hearts,  brother,  sleep  for  aching  eyes," 
Says  the  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds'  cries. 

It's  the  white  road  westwards  is  the  road  I  must  tread 
To  the  green  grass,  the  cool  grass,  and  rest  for  heart  and  head, 
To  the  violets  and  the  brown  brooks  and  the  thrushes'  song, 
In  the  fine  land,  the  west  land  the  land  where  I  belong. 

John  Masefield  (1874-  ) 


At  t     ivrvvH.  £.    v 
A*£«*  • 


•vc£-C/  ,  -~ 

^CHAPTER  V 

IAMBIC  PENTAMETER 

I   salute  thee,   Mantovano,   I   that  loved  thee  since  my  day 

began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure  ever  moulded  by  the  lips 

of  man. 

Tennyson:  "To  Virgil" 

FOR  longer,  more  elevated  poems,  English  poetry  has 
no  one  metrical  form  comparable  to  the  classical  hexam- 
eter of  Homer  and  Vergil.  Blank  verse,  the  heroic 
couplet,  the  Spenserian  stanza,  and  several  other  forms 
have  been  used  in  its  stead.  These  forms,  however,  all 
employ  the  iambic  pentameter  line  (5xa),  which  in  Eng- 
lish poetry  is  used  oftener  than  any  other.  It  is  more 
flexible  and  less  monotonous  than  the  tetrameter  line, 
which  tends  to  divide  into  two  equal  parts.  Either  with 
or  without  rime,  iambic  pentameter  is  the  meter  commonly 
employed  in  narrative,  dramatic,  reflective,  and  descrip- 
tive poetry ;  in  other  words,  in  longer  poems  of  all  kinds. 

J$lankverse,  which  is  iambic  pentameter  without  rime, 
is  the  most  distinguished  of  all  English  metrical  forms. 
It  is  the  meter  which  we  instinctively  associate  with  the 
two  greatest  English  poets,  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  One 
of  Emerson's  very  interesting  fragments  will  illustrate 
the  metrical  structure  of  blank  verse : 

This  shining  moment  is  an  edifice 
Which  the  Omnipotent  cannot  rebuild. 
172 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  173 

Blank  verse  was  introduced  from  the  Italian  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII  by  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  who  used  it 
in  an  incomplete  translation  of  Vergil's  /Eneid.  A  few 
years  later  it  became  the  established  metrical  form  of 
Elizabethan  drama.  Christopher  Marlowe,  who  was  the 
greatest  of  Shakespeare's  predecessors,  was  the  first  to 
make  effective  use  of  it.  "Marlowe's  mighty  line,"  as 
Ben  Jonson  called  it,  is  characterized  by  a  power  and 
a  melody  that  English  poetry  had  not  seen  since  Chaucer's 
time.  Marlowe,  who,  like  Keats  and  Shelley,  died  young, 
is  the  only  Elizabethan  dramatist  of  whom  it  can  be  con- 
jectured that,  had  he  lived,  he  might  possibly  have  rivaled 
Shakespeare.  His  best  known  tragedy  is  Doctor  Faustus, 
which  Goethe,  the  author  of  a  greater  play  upon  the  same 
theme,  praised  most  highly.  Faustus  is  a  magician  who 
calls  up  from  the  tomb  Helen  of  Troy,  the  most  beautiful 
woman  of  antiquity.  When  she  appears,  he  speaks : 

Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships 

And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium? 

Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss. 

Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul ;  see  where  it  flies ! — 

Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 

Here  will' I  dwell,  for  Heaven  is  in  these  lips, 

And  all  is 'dross  that  is  not  Helena. 

I'  will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee, 

Instead  of  Troy  shall  Wertenberg  be  sacked: 

And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 

And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest; 

Yea,  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel, 

And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 

Oh,  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air 

Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars ; 


174  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter 
When  he  appeared  to  hapless  Semele: 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sky 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azured  arms: 
And  none  but  thou  shalt  be  my  paramour. 

Winifred  Kirkland  has  recently  referred  to  these  lines 
as  "the  highest  praise  ever  given  to  any  face  in  English 
literature."  The  wise  poet  in  describing  a  beautiful 
woman  does  not  employ  a  multitude  of  details,  for  no 
two  of  us  have  the  same  ideal  of  beauty;  he  describes 
instead  the  effect  of  her  beauty  on  those  who  see  her.  It  is 
thus  that  Homer,  in  the  third  book  of  the  Iliad,  describes 
the  effect  of  Helen's  beauty  upon  the  Trojan  elders. 
These  unsusceptible  old  men,  as  they  see  Helen  approach- 
ing, say  one  to  the  other,  "Small  blame  is  it  that  Trojans 
and  well-greaved  Achaians  should  for  such  a  woman  long 
time  suffer  hardship ;  marvellously  like  is  she  to  the  im- 
mortal goddesses  to  look  upon." 

Shakespeare  is,  of  course,  the  great  master  of  dramatic 
blank  verse.  His  earlier  use  of  it  resembles  Marlowe's, 
although  he  gives  the  measure  a  grace  and  a  beauty  which 
Marlowe's  lines  rarely  possess.  We  quote  the  well-known 
passage  on  the  Poet  which  Shakespeare  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  Theseus  in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream: 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact. 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold; 

That  is  the  madman.     The  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt. 

The  poet's  glance,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven; 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  175 

And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes  and  gives  to  airy  nothings 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

Shakespeare's  later  plays  have  fewer  passages,  like  the 
above  selection,  which  can  be  detached  from  the  context, 
for  he  learned  to  weave  his  poetry  more  closely  into  the 
texture  of  his  plays.  Among  passages  representing  "the 
very  highest  poetical  quality,"  Matthew  Arnold  has  in- 
cluded the  words  which  the  dying  Hamlet  speaks  to  his 
bosom  friend  Horatio : 

If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain, 
To  tell  my  story. 

Shakespeare's  blank  verse  is  characterized  by  a  mar- 
velous variety  and  a  perfect  adaptation  to  the  require- 
ments of  the  stage.  As  he  writes  it,  blank  verse  is  the 
most  flexible  of  all  metrical  forms.  In  his  later  verse  the 
pauses  occur  less  regularly  at  the  end  of  the  line,  and 
the  number  of  extra  syllables  increases.  The  dying  words 
of  Othello  are  an  excellent  example  of  Shakespeare's 
blank  verse  at  its  best.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the 
jealous  Moorish  general  has  killed  his  faithful  wife 
Desdemona  only  to  discover  immediately  afterward  that 
she  was  innocent.  Just  before  he  commits  suicide,  Othello 
speaks : 

I  pray  you,  in  your  letters, 
When  you  shall  these  unlucky  deeds  relate, 
Speak  of  me  as  I  am;  nothing  extenuate*. 
Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice :  then  must  you  speak 


176  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Of  one  that  lov'd  not  wisely  but  too  well; 

Of  one  not  easily  jealous,  but  being  wrought 

Perplex'd  in  the  extreme;  of  one  whose  hand, 

Like  the  base  Indian,  threw  a  pearl  away 

Richer  than  all  his  tribe ;  of  one  whose  subdued  eyes, 

Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood, 

Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 

Their  medicinable  gum.     Set  you  down  this; 

And  say  besides,  that  in  Aleppo  once, 

Where  a  malignant  and  a  turban'd  Turk 

Beat  a  Venetian  and  traduc'd  the  state, 

I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog, 

And  smote  him,  thus.     (Stabs  himself.} 

Other  Elizabethan  dramatists  besides  Marlowe  and 
Shakespeare  wrote  excellent  blank  verse,  and  none  handled 
the  measure  more  skilfully  than  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
John  Fletcher  collaborated  not  only"~with  Beaumont  but 
also  with  Shakespeare.  The  famous  passage  from  Henry 
VIII  which  follows  was  almost  certainly  written  by  him 
and  not  by  Shakespeare.  Fletcher's  blank  verse  is  char- 
acterized by  a  great  number  of  lines  ending  in  an  un- 
stressed or  half-stressed  eleventh  syllable.  Wolsey,  King 
Henry's  minister,  having  displeased  his  master  and  lost 
his  position,  speaks  to  his  successor,  Thomas  Cromwell: 

Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 

In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forced  me, 

Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 

Let's  dry  our  eyes:  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell; 

And — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be, 

And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 

Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of — say  I  taught  thee, 

Say  Wolsey — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory, 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour — 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  177 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in; 

A  sure  and  safe  one.  though  thy  master  miss'd  it. 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that/  that  ruin'd  me. 

Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  filing  away  ambition; 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't? 

Love  thyself  last:  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee: 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 

To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just  and  fear  not: 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's.^ 

Thy  Gqd'g,  and  truth's ;  then^Tthou  fall'st,  O  Cromwell, 

TKou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr!    Serve  the  king; 

And, — pr'ytheej  lead  me  in: 

There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 

To  the  last  penny ;  'tis  the  king's :  my  robe 

And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 

I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     O  Cromwell,  Cromwell! 

Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 

I  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 

Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

To  most  persons,  blank  verse  first  suggests  the  name 
of  John  Milton,  who,  though  less  great  a  writer  than 
Shakespeare,  was  a  greater  poet.  Blank  verse  was 
Milton's  favorite  metrical  form.  He  first  used  it  in  his 
Comus,  a  masque.  As  we  should  expect  from  a  poet  born 
while  Shakespeare  was  still  alive,  Milton's  earliest  blank 
verse  is  Elizabethan  rather  than  what  we  now  think  of  as 
Miltonic.  The  elder  brother's  praise  of  chastity  in 
Comus  strikes  the  key-note  of  the  play : 

She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel, 
And,  like  a  quivered  nymph  with  arrows  keen, 
May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharboured  heaths, 


178  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous  wilds ; 

Where,  through  the  sacred  rays  of  chastity, 

No  savage  fierce,  bandit,  or  mountaineer 

Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity. 

Yea,  there  where  very  desolation  dwells, 

By  grots  and  caverns  shagged  with  horrid  shades, 

She  may  pass  on  with  unblenched  majesty, 

Be  it  not  done  in  pride  or  in  presumption. 

Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night, 

In  fog  or  fire,  by  lake  or  moorish  fen, 

Blue  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid  ghost, 

That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfew  time, 

No  goblin  or  swart  faery  of  the  mine, 

Hath  hurtful  power  o'er  true  virginity. 

After  the  writing  of  Comus,  some  twenty  3'ears  elapsed 
before  Milton  wrote  his  later  poems,  Paradise  Lost, 
Paradise  Regained,  and  Samson  Agonistes,  all  of  which 
are  in  blank  verse.  In  these  twenty  years  of  service  in 
the  Puritan  cause,  Milton  became  almost  a  different  man. 
After  the  Restoration  in  1660,  blind,  poor,  outcast,  he 
sat  down  to  write  the  great  epic  of  Puritanism,  Paradise 
Lost.  His  later  poems  lack  the  airy  charm,  the  lightness, 
the  grace  of  Comus  and  L' Allegro;  but  they  possess  a 
sublimity  and  a  sonorous  eloquence  unequaled  in  British 
poetry.  Milton's  later  blank  verse  does  not  greatly  re- 
semble that  of  Shakespeare,  for  narrative  poetry  calls  for 
a  different  use  of  the  metrical  form.  Milton  himself  ex- 
plains his  conception  of  the  measure.  "True  musical  de- 
light," says  he,  "consists  only  in  apt  numbers,  fit  quantity 
of  syllables,  and  the  sense  variously  drawn  out  from  one 
verse  into  another,  not  in  the  jingling  sound  of  like 
endings."  In  the  following  description  of  Satan,  Milton 
varies  his  pauses  with  masterly  skill: 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  179 

He,  above  the  rest 

In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower ;  his  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  its  original  brightness ;  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured :  as  when  the  sun,  new  risen, 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 
Shorn  of  his  beams,  or  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.    Darkened  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  archangel;  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  entrenched ;  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek ;  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge. 

Since  the  time  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  blank  verse 
has  been  much  used  in  reflective  and  descriptive  poetry. 
Although  Wordsworth  wrote  much  very  poor  blank  verse, 
no  poet  since  Milton  has  handled  the  measure  with  greater 
skill.  Wordsworth  is  preeminently  a  nature  poet ;  no  one 
has  ever  described  natural  phenomena  with  greater  ac- 
curacy or  finer  insight.  The  following  selection  is  from 
The  Prelude,  an  autobiography  of  his  boyhood  and  youth, 
which  emphasizes  those  early  influences  which  made  him 
a  poet.  The  reader  should  note  the  skill  with  which  the 
poet  manages  to  suggest,  by  the  movement  of  his  lines, 
the  various  motions  and  sounds  of  the  skaters. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twilight  gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us — for  me 


180  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

It  was  a  time  of  rapture !     Clear  and  loud 
The  village  clock  tolled  six, — I  wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod  with  steel, 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron ;  while  far  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 
Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star 
That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain;  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitanr  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round ! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 

Although  all  of  the  Romantic  poets,  except  Scott,  used 
blank  verse  with  great  effectiveness,  none  of  Wordsworth's 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  181 

contemporaries  handled  the  measure  with  greater  skill 
than  Keats  displayed  in  his  fragmentary  epic,  Hyperion. 
This  story  of  the  fallen  Grecian  gods  who  reigned  before 
Jupiter  opens  as  follows: 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 

Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade:  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

"There,"  says  Professor  Lowes,  "if  it  ever  was  secured, 
is  absolute  truth  of  illusion,  and  flawless  consistency  of 
the  imagery  that  creates  it." 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  of  whom  we  shall  have  more  to 
say  in  the  chapter  on  Light  Verse,  links  the  Romantic 
and  Victorian  poets.  Although  born  in  1775,  he  lived  to 
know  and  admire  Robert  Browning.  The  following  poem 
contains  a  vivid  and  accurate  characterization  of  Brown- 
ing, who,  like  Landor,  was  then  living  in  Italy.  The  num- 
ber of  poets,  novelists,  and  dramatists  who  have  found 
inspiration  in  Italy  is  very  great.  A  visit  to  Italy  or  a 
residence  there  plays  a  large  part  in  the  lives  of  Chaucer, 
Milton,  Byron,  Shelley,  Landor,  the  Brownings,  Goethe, 
Lamartine,  Ibsen,  Hawthorne,  Cooper,  Howells,  Samuel 


182  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Butler  the  novelist,  and  Henry  James.     The  last  line  of 
Landor's  poem  contains  an  allusion  to  Mrs.  Browning. 

TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear 

Beside  the  singer;  and  there  is  delight 

In  praising,  tho'  the  praiser  sit  alone 

And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 

Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 

Therefore  on  him  no  speech !  and  brief  for  thee, 

Browning!     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 

No  man  hath  walked  along  our  roads  with  steps 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 

So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 

Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing:  the  breeze 

Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 

The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 

Walter  Savage  Landor  (1775-1864) 

Browning  himself  used  blank  verse  very  effectively  in 
a  number  of  his  best  poems  and  plays.  His  blank  verse 
is  essentially  dramatic  and  conversational.  Unfortu- 
nately, such  poems  as  "Fra  Lippo  Lippi"  and  "Andrea 
del  Sarto"  are  too  long  to  quote  here.  So  also  are  the 
blank  verse  poems  of  another  great  Victorian,  Matthew 
Arnold,  who  uses  the  measure  in  "Balder  Dead"  and 
"Sohrab  and  Rustum." 

No  Victorian  poet  wrote  better  blank  verse  than  Tenny- 
son. His  later  poems,  however,  are  usually  regarded  as 
inferior  to  those  included  in  the  1842  volume  which  gave 
him  his  reputation.  "Morte  D' Arthur"  probably  marks 
the  high-water  mark  of  his  poetry.  The  blank  verse  of 
the  later  Idylls  of  the  King  is  more  monotonous  and 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  183 

conventional.  "Ulysses,"  another  poem  from  the  1842 
volume,  illustrates  Tennyson's  use  of  blank  verse  at  his 
best.  The  story  of  Ulysses  comes,  of  course,  ultimately 
from  the  Odyssey;  but  Tennyson  found  in  Dante's  Divine 
Comedy  the  episode  with  which  he  deals.  The  differ- 
ent uses  made  of  the  Homeric  story  by  Dante  and  Tenny- 
son illustrate  clearly  the  difference  between  the  medieval 
and  the  modern  attitude  toward  the  desire  for  knowledge. 
Homer,  in  the  conventional  fashion  of  romance,  brings 
Ulysses  home,  after  his  twenty  years  of  wars  and  wan- 
dering, to  live  happily  ever  after  with  his  faithful  wife 
and  son.  Dante  represents  the  old  warrior,  dissatisfied 
with  this  tame  existence,  as  calling  up  his  sailors — in  the 
Odyssey  they  had  all  died  before  Ulysses  reached  Ithaca 
— to  make  another  voyage  in  quest  of  the  unknown.  They 
sail  beyond  the  straits  of  Gibraltar  out  into  the  unex- 
plored Atlantic,  where  they  are  all  shipwrecked  and 
drowned.  Dante  gives  Ulysses  a  place  in  the  Inferno 
because  he  had  wanted  to  know  things  which  no  mortal 
should  aspire  to  know.  Tennyson,  telling  essentially  the 
same  story,  gives  it  a  distinctly  modern  interpretation. 
He  makes  his  Ulysses  the  incarnation  of  the  modern  de- 
sire to  know,  which  is  largely  the  product  of  the  scientific 
movement  of  Tennyson's  own  time.  The  mythological 
allusions  should  be  looked  up  in  a  classical  dictionary  or 
in  Gayley's  Classic  Myths. 

ULYSSES 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 


184  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 

Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and  when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vext  the  dim  sea:  I  am  become  a  name. 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known:  cities  of  men, 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 

Where  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  185 

Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 

Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 

When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail: 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 
The  long  day  wanes:  the  slow  moon  climbs:  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down: 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew; 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  tho'' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are,  we  are; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892) 

Only  a  few  American  poets  have  used  blank  verse  with 
entire  success.     Bryant,  who,  because  of  his  nature  poems 


186  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

in  blank  verse,  has  often  been  called  the  American 
Wordsworth,  uses  this  difficult  measure  better  than  any 
other  American  poet.  His  "Thanatopsis,"  "The  An- 
tiquity of  Freedom,"  "A  Forest  Hymn,"  and  "A  Winter 
Piece"  are  all  excellent.  "The  Prairies,"  from  which  we 
quote  the  opening  paragraph,  deserves  mention  as  one 
of  the  few  notable  poetic  attempts  to  picture  the  scenery 
of  the  great  West. 

These  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name — 
The  Prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo !  they  stretch, 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  forever. — Motionless? — 
No — they  are  all  unchained  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South ! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have  played 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fanned 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this? 
Man  hath  no  power  in  all  this  glorious  work: 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their  slopes 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  187 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 
And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.     Fitting  floor 
For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky — 
With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rival  the  constellations !     The  great  heavens 
Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 
A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 
Than  that  which  bends  above  our  eastern  hills. 

The  passage  which  has  been  quoted  from  Wordsworth 
is  one  of  the  rare  descriptions  of  winter  scenery  to  be 
found  in  British  poetry.  Only  among  the  poets  of  wintry 
New  England  do  we  find  many  poems  which  describe  the 
snow-covered  landscape.  One  recalls  Bryant's  "A  Winter 
Piece"  and  "The  Little  People  of  the  Snow,"  Lowell's 
"The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,"  Whittier's  "Snow-Bound," 
and  Emerson's  "The  Snow-Storm." 


THE  SNOW-STORM 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight:  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north  wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 


188  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 

Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 

So  fanciful,  so  savage,  nought  cares  he 

For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly 

On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths; 

A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn; 

Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 

Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs ;  and  at  the  gate 

A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 

And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  as  he  were  not, 

Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 

To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 

Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 

The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882) 

Most  persons  interested  in  present-day  poetry  seem 
unaware  that  blank  verse  is  often  used  by  living  poets. 
William  Butler  Yeats's  poetic  dramas  are  written  in 
blank  verse  of  great  beauty.  Among  living  American 
poets,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Robert  Frost,  and  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson  frequently  employ  this  long-estab- 
lished metrical  form.  The  blank  verse  of  Robinson's 
Merlin  and  Lancelot  tempts  comparison  with  that  of 
The  Idylls  of  the  King;  and,  on  the  whole,  it  can  hardly 
be  said  that  Robinson's  verse  suffers  from  the  comparison. 
We  quote  the  opening  lines  of  his  superb  portrait  of 
Shakespeare,  "Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a  Man  from  Strat- 
ford": 

You  are  a  friend  then,  as  I  make  it  out, 
Of  our  man  Shakespeare,  who  alone  of  us 
Will  put  an  ass's  head  in  Fairyland 
As  he  would  add  a  shilling  to  more  shillings, 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  189 

All  most  harmonious, — and  out  of  his 

Miraculous  inviolable  increase 

Fills  Ilion,  Rome,  or  any  town  you  like 

Of  olden  time  with  timeless  Englishmen ; 

And  I  must  wonder  what  you  think  of  him — 

All  you  down  there  where  your  small  Avon  flows 

By  Stratford,  and  where  you're  an  Alderman. 

The  blank  verse  of  Robert  Frost,  like  that  of  Robinson, 
follows  the  rhythms  of  the  human  voice  in  actual  speech. 
Frost's  verse  recalls  the  blank  verse  of  Browning  and  of 
Shakespeare  rather  than  that  of  Milton,  Wordsworth,  or 
Tennyson.  Frost's  poems  are  generally  descriptions  of 
New  England  rural  life  and  scenery;  they  portray,  how- 
ever, not  the  New  England  of  Emerson  and  Whittier,  but 
rather  the  decadent,  neurasthenic  New  England  of  Mary 
Wilkins  Freeman  and  Alice  Brown.  These  short  story 
writers,  and  not  the  older  poets,  are  Frost's  true  pre- 
decessors. 

MENDING  WALL 

Something  there  is  that  doesn't  love  a  wall, 
That  sends  the  frozen-ground-swell  under  it, 
And  spills  the  upper  boulders  in  the  sun; 
And  makes  gaps  even  two  can  pass  abreast. 
The  work  of  hunters  is  another  thing: 
I  have  come  after  them  and  made  repair 
Where  they  have  left  not  one  stone  on  stone, 
But  they  would  have  the  rabbit  out  of  hiding, 
y    To  please  the  yelping  dogs.    The  gaps  I  mean, 
No  one  has  seen  them  made  or  heard  them  made, 
But  at  spring  mending-time  we  find  them  there. 
I  let  my  neighbor  know  beyond  the  hill ; 


190  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  on  a  day  we  meet  to  walk  the  line 
And  set  the  wall  between  us  once  again. 
We  keep  the  wall  between  us  as  we  go. 
To  each  the  boulders  that  have  fallen  to  each. 
And  some  are  loaves  and  some  so  nearly  balls 
We  have  to  use  a  spell  to  make  them  balance: 
"Stay  where  you  are  until  our  backs  are  turned !" 
We  wear  our  fingers  rough  with  handling  them. 
Oh,  just  another  kind  of  outdoor  game, 
One  on  a  side.     It  comes  to  little  more: 
He  is  all  pine  and  I  am  apple-orchard. 
My  apple  trees  will  never  get  across 
And  eat  the  cones  under  his  pines,  I  tell  him. 
He  only  says,  "Good  fences  make  good  neighbors." 
Spring  is  the  mischief  in  me,  and  I  wonder 
If  I  could  put  a  notion  in  his  head: 
"Why  do  they  make  good  neighbors?     Isn't  it 
Where  there  are  cows  ?    But  here  there  are  no  cows. 
Before  I  built  a  wall  I'd  ask  to  know 
What  I  was  walling  in  or  walling  out, 
And  to  whom  I  was  like  to  give  offence. 
Something  there  is  that  doesn't  love  a  wall, 
That  wants  it  down !"    I  could  say  "Elves"  to  him, 
But  it's  not  elves  exactly,  and  I'd  rather 
He  said  it  for  himself.    I  see  him  there, 
Bringing  a  stone  grasped  firmly  by  the  top 
In  each  hand,  like  an  old-stone  savage  armed. 
He  moves  in  darkness  as  it  seems  to  me, 
Not  of  woods  only  and  the  shade  of  trees. 
He  will  not  go  behind  his  father's  saying, 
And  he  likes  having  thought  of  it  so  well 
He  says  again,  "Good  fences  make  good  neighbors." 

Robert  Frost  (1875-  ) 

Although  blank  verse  is  not  so  old  as  rimed  verse,  it  is 
to  be  remembered  that   the  oldest   English  poetry   em- 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  191 

ployed  not  rime  but  alliteration.  Rime  was  introduced 
about  the  time  of  the  Norman  Conquest  from  the  conti- 
nent, where  its  use  had  become  common  in  the  Dark  Ages. 
By  the  time  of  Chaucer's  death  in  1400,  rime  was  thor- 
oughly established  in  British  poetry;  and  the  old  Anglo- 
Saxon  alliterative  measure  was  obsolete.  The  English 
language,  however,  is  poorer  in  rimes  than  other  Euro- 
pean languages ;  and  this  fact  has  long  been  an  argument 
for  abandoning  rime  for  blank  verse  or  free  verse.  Dante, 
writing  in  Italian,  a  language  in  which  rimes  are  plentiful, 
boasted  that  the  exigencies  of  rime  had  never  forced  him 
to  say  either  more  or  less  than  exactly  what  he  intended 
to  say.  Milton,  however,  after  using  rime  in  his  minor 
poems  with  consummate  skill,  abandoned  this  "trouble- 
some and  modern  bondage  of  rhyming"  as  "the  invention 
of  a  barbarous  age,  to  set  off  wretched  matter  and  lame 
metre,"  maintaining  that  the  poets  who  had  used  rime 
had  done  so  "much  to  their  own  vexation,  hindrance,  and 
constraint  to  express  many  things  otherwise,  and  for 
the  most  part  worse,  than  else  they  would  have  expressed 
them." 

There  is  more  to  be  said  for  rime,  however,  than  Milton 
admits ;  for  blank  verse  and  free  verse,  though  they  seem 
the  easiest  of  all  forms,  are  in  reality  the  most  difficult. 
Paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  poets,  as  a  rule,  succeed 
most  often  in  those  metrical  forms  which  allow  the  least 
freedom.  Wordsworth's  sonnets  are,  on  the  whole,  better 
than  his  blank  verse.  In  blank  verse,  free  verse,  and  the 
octosyllabic  couplets  of  Scott  and  Byron  there  is  a  fatal 
facility  which  often  prevents  the  poet  from  making  his 
poem  compact  and  concise.  For  this  reason  minor  poets 


192  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

have  seldom  succeeded  so  well  with  blank  verse  or  free 
verse  as  with  rime.  In  his  "Ars  Victrix"  Austin  Dobson, 
imitating  the  French  poet  Gautier,  gives  this  advice  to 
the  poet: 

O  Poet,  then,  forbear 

The  loosely-sandalled  verse, 
Choose  rather  thou  to  wear 
The  buskin  —  strait  and  terse; 

Leave  to  the  tyro's  hand 

The  limp  and  shapeless  style; 
See  that  thy  form  demand 

The  labour  of  the  file. 


Besides  its  most  ^ppyfenfjjiflj'pQpa  «** 
of  a  jaoem  into  the  structural  units  which 
rime  has  several  valuable  functions.  It  serves  at  the 
outset  to  differentiate  a  poem  from  prose;  it  helps  to 
give  us  the  right  mood  at  the  beginning.  It  is  almost 
indispensable  in  lyric  poetry  ;  Tennyson's  "Tears,  Idle 
Tears"  is  almost  the  only  successful  blank  verse  lyric  in 
the  language.  Rime,  furthermore,  supplies  a  partial 
substitute  for  the  music  which  originally  accompanied 
all  poetry.  The  combined  rimes  of  a  stanza  give  some- 
thing of  the  same  effect  as  a  chord  in  music.  Rime  often 
serves  also  to  stress  the  most  important  words  in  the  line. 
In  Pope's  poems  the  rime  word  is  often  balanced  against 
another  word  within  the  line,  as  in 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense. 

To  illustrate  the  different  effects  obtainable  from  prose, 
blank  verse,  and  rime,  we  quote  three  separate  transla- 
tions of  the  opening  paragraph  of  the  Iliad.  The  first  is 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  193 

from  the  poetic,  semi-biblical  prose  version  of  Lang,  Leaf, 
and  Myers: 

Sing,  goddess,  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  Peleus'  son,  the  ruin- 
ous wrath  that  brought  on  the  Achaians  woes  innumerable, 
and  hurled  down  into  Hades  many  strong  souls  of  heroes,  and 
gave  their  bodies  to  be  a  prey  to  dogs  and  all  winged  fowls; 
and  so  the  counsel  of  Zeus  wrought  out  its  accomplishment 
from  the  day  when  first  strife  parted  Atreides,  king  of  men, 
and  noble  Achilles. 

The  second  version,  in  blank  verse  modeled  on  that  of 
Milton,  is  by  the  Earl  of  Derby : 

Of  Peleus'  son,  Achilles,  sing,  O  Muse, 
The  vengeance  deep  and  deadly;  whence  to  Greece 
Unnumbered  ills  arose;  which  many  a  soul 
Of  mighty  warriors  to  the  viewless  shades 
Untimely  sent;  they  on  the  battle  plain 
Unburied  lay,  a  prey  to  rav'ning  dogs, 
And  carrion  birds ;  but  so  had  Jove  decreed, 
From  that  sad  day  when  first  in  wordy  war, 
The  mighty  Agamemnon,  King  of  men, 
Confronted  stood  by  Peleus'  godlike  son. 

The  third  version,  in  rimed  couplets,  is  from  the  famous 
translation  by  Alexander  Pope: 

Achilles'  wrath,  to  Greece  the  direful  spring 
Of  woes  unnumbered,  heavenly  Goddess,  sing! 
That  wrath  which  hurled  to  Pluto's  gloomy  reign 
The  souls  of  mighty  chiefs  untimely  slain: 
Whose  limbs,  unburied  on  the  naked  shore, 
Devouring  dogs  and  hungry  vultures  tore: 
Since  great  Achilles  and  Atrides  strove, 
Such  was  the  sovereign  doom,  and  such  the  will  of  Jove. 

The  skilful  poet  selects  that  metrical  form  which  is 
best  suited  to  the  expression  of  what  he  has  to  say.  The 


194  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

ballad  stanza  and  the  octosyllabic  couplet  are  best 
adapted  to  stirring  narrative.  Blank  verse,  as  we  have 
seen,  is  best  adapted  to  dramatic,  epic,  and  reflective 
poetry.  For  satire,  the  poet  prefers  the  heroic  couplet 
or  the  Ottawa jrima  stanza ;  for  a  pensive  theme,  the  heroic 
quatrain;  and  for  painting  a  dream-picture,  the  Spen- 
serian stanza.  Each  stanzaic  form  has  a  character  of 
its  own;  and,  in  addition,  it  bears  the  impress  of  the 
personality  of  the  poet  who  uses  it.  The  personal  equa- 
tion, lacking  in  the  folk-song  and  the  popular  ballad, 
enters  in ;  and  Keats's  blank  verse,  in  spite  of  the  marked 
influence  of  Milton,  can  rarely  be  mistaken  for  that  of 
Paradise  Lost.  The  stanzaic  forms  which  employ  the 
iambic  pentameter  line  are  numerous,  and  the  variety  of 
effects  which  can  be  secured  from  varying  the  rimes  is 
very  large.  We  shall  try  to  point  out  the  fitness  of  the 
more  important  stanzaic  forms  to  special  purposes,  and 
show  also  how  different  poets  have  adapted  them  to  their 
own  special  ends. 

The  heroic  couplet  consists  of  two  iambic  pentameter 
lines  riming  in  pairs,  aa,  bb,  cc,  etc.  Occasionally  a  poem 
consists  of  only  one  couplet,  as  in  Adelaide  Crapsey's 


ON  SEEING  WEATHER-BEATEN  TREES 

Is  it  as  plainly  in  our  living  shown, 
By  slant  and  twist,  which  way  the  wind  hath  blown  ? 
Adelaide  Crapsey  (1878-1914) 

The  heroic  couplet,  however,  is  ordinarily  found  only  in 
longer  poems;  and,  in  spite  of  one  or  two  striking  ex- 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  195 

ceptions,  it  is  not  cuited  to  the  lyric.  Chaucer  used  it 
with  great  effect  in  his  Prologue  and  in  several  of  the 
Canterbury  Tales.  The  opening  paragraph  of  the 
Prologue  well  illustrates  Chaucer's  consummate  mastery 
of  the  couplet.  It  should  be  noted  that  in  Chaucer's  time 
the  English  language  contained  many  final  ^'s  which  are 
no  longer  pronounced.  The  larger  proportion  of  vowels 
to  consonants  made  Middle  English  almost  as  musical  a 
language  as  Italian.  The  tf's  which  Chaucer  pronounced 
are  indicated  thus :  e.  The  vowels  should  be  pronounced 
as  in  French  or  Latin.  Whan  is  when;  soote,  sweet; 
swich,  such ;  sonne,  sun ;  y-ronne,  run ;  fowles,  birds ; 
ye,  eye ;  corages,  hearts ;  seken,  seek ;  strondes,  strands ; 
feme  htdwes,  distant  shrines ;  couthe,  known ;  Mr,  their ; 
than,  then;  hem,  them;  seke,  seek  and  sick. 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote 

The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  rootfc, 

And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour, 

Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour; 

Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth 

Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 

The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonn& 

Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 

And  smale  fowles  maken  melodye, 

That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye, 

(So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages) : 

Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages, 

And  palmers  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes, 

To  feme  halwes,  couthe  in  sondry  londes; 

And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 

The  holy  blissful  martir  for  to  seke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seke. 


196  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Marlowe  employed  the  heroic  couplet  in  his  Hero  and 
Leander,  and  Shakespeare  used  it  frequently,  in  his 
early  plays,  for  the  closing  lines  of  his  scenes.  Since  the 
close  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  two  distinct  types  of  the 
couplet  have  developed.  The  first,  used  by  Dryden,  Pope, 
and  their  followers,  is  really  a  stanza,  although  they 
always  printed  their  lines  continuously.  In  the  "closed" 
couplet,  as  it  is  called,  each  couplet  is  a  thought  unit. 
There  is  almost  invariably  a  marked  pause  at  the  end 
of  the  second  line  and  usually  one  at  the  end  of  the  first 
line  as  well.  The  typical  "closed"  couplet  is  illustrated 
by  Pope's  pithy  lines, 

True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 

In  the  "open"  couplet,  much  used  by  the  Romantic  poets, 
the  movement,  as  in  blank  verse,  is  continuous.  The 
pauses  usually  occur  in  the  middle  of  the  line,  seldom  at 
the  end. 

Pope's  period  has  been  called  the  Age  of  Prose  and 
Reason.  At  that  time  even  poetry  concerned  itself  with 
subjects  now  generally  considered  proper  for  treatment 
only  in  prose.  The  very  titles  of  his  poems,  An  Essay 
on  Criticism,  An  Essay  on  Man,  Moral  Essays,  sug- 
gest prose  rather  than  verse.  Pope's  poetry  belongs  to 
the  literature  of  knowledge  rather  than  to  the  literature 
of  power,  of  reason  rather  than  of  imagination.  Seldom 
have  later  poets  rivaled  Pope  and  Dryden  in  epigrammatic 
point,  in  keenness  of  wit,  in  brilliant  satire,  or  in  technical 
dexterity.  The  heroic  couplet,  as  they  use  it,  is  ad- 
mirably adapted  to  these  ends.  Later  critics  have  fre- 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  197 

quently  denied  these  verses  any  poetic  merit ;  but  whether 
poetry  or  not,  the  "poems"  are  certainly  literature. 
Dryden  in  his  "Lines  Printed  under  the  Engraved  Por- 
trait of  Milton"  ranks  Milton  above  both  Vergil  and 
Homer.  We  have  here  printed  each  couplet  as  a  separate 
stanza  to  indicate  the  independent  character  of  each 
"closed"  couplet. 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 

The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed, 
The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last. 

The  force  of  Nature  could  no  farther  go ; 

To  make  the  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 

In  the  extract  quoted  from  Wordsworth's  The  Pre- 
lude, we  noted  that  the  poet  contrives  to  suggest  the 
motions  of  the  skaters  by  the  movement  of  his  lines. 
Many  striking  examples  of  onomatopoeia  are  found  in 
Tennyson.  The  following  line  from  "Locksley  Hall 
Sixty  Years  After"  is  said  to  have  been  his  favorite  line, 

Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless  isles. 
Another  much  quoted  passage  is  from  The  Princess, 

The  moan  of  doves   in   immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees. 

Perhaps  the  cleverest  use  of  onomatopoeia  is  found  in 
Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism: 

'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence, 
The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense. 
Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 


198  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 

The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow; 

Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 

'The  Romantic  poets  rebelled  against  the  poetic  con- 
ventions of  Pope's  time  in  much  the  same  manner  as  living 
poets  have  rebelled  against  the  practices  of  the  Victorian 
poets.  The  Romanticists  either  discarded  the  heroic 
couplet  or  handled  it  in  an  entirely  different  manner. 
The  following  passage  from  Keats's  "Sleep  and  Poetry" 
illustrates  both  the  Romantic  use  of  the  couplet  and  the 
revolt  against  Pope's  conception  of  poetry.  The  move- 
ment of  the  "open"  couplet  is  not  stanzaic  but  continu- 
ous ;  the  pauses  occur  chiefly  inside  the  line  and  the  rime 
words  are  often  unstressed. 

A  schism 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 
Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 
Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 
His  glories :  with  a  puling  infant's  force 
They  swayed  about  upon  a  rocking  horse, 
And  thought  it  Pegasus.    Ah  dismal  souled ! 
The  winds  of  heaven  blew:  the  ocean  rolled 
Its  gathering  waves — ye  felt  it  not.    The  blue 
Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 
Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make 
The  morning  precious:  beauty  was  awake! 
Why  were  ye  not  awake?     But  ye  were  dead 
To  things  ye  knew  not  of, — were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  199 

And  compass  vile:  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 
Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 
Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit, 
Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task! 
A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  impious  race ! 
That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face, 
And  did  not  know  it. 

The  heroic  couplet  is  not  often  found  in  Victorian 
poetry.  Browning  sometimes  used  it  very  effectively  in 
the  manner  of  the  Romantic  poets.  So  continuous  is  the 
movement  of  the  verse  in  "My  Last  Duchess"  that  one 
may  easily  mistake  it  for  blank  verse.  "My  Last 
Duchess"  is  perhaps  the  finest  example  of  the  dramatic 
monologue,  a  type  of  poem  which  Browning  made  famous. 
Much  of  Browning's  alleged  obscurity  is  due  to  a  failure 
to  understand  this  type  of  poetry.  The  reader  has  doubt- 
less listened  to  a  friend  talking  over  the  telephone,  and 
tried  to  piece  out  the  whole  conversation  from  the  half 
which  he  overhears.  In  the  dramatic  monologue  the  situa- 
tion is  precisely  the  same ;  we  hear  only  one  of  the  speak- 
ers. In  "My  Last  Duchess"  the  speaker  is  an  Italian 
nobleman  who  is  showing  a  picture  of  his  first  wife  to  a 
messenger  from  the  count  whose  daughter  the  speaker 
proposes  to  make  his  second  wife.  The  fifty-six  lines  of 
the  poem  paint  memorable  pictures  of  two  characters  and 
reveal  much  of  the  spirit  of  Renaissance  life  in  Italy.  ' 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 

That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf 's  hands 


200  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?     I  said 

"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design,  for  never  read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 

But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 

How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantle  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat":  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.    She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say  ? — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed:  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  't  was  all  one !     My  favor  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men, — good !  but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?    Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  201 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;  I  gave  commands; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.    Will  't  please  you  rise?    We'll  meet 

The  company  fcelow,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me ! 

Robert  Browning  (1812-1889) 

Poets  of  today  use  the  heroic  couplet  oftener  than  a 
casual  reader  would  suppose  from  the  manner  in  which 
older  metrical  forms  are  condemned.  We  may  mention 
Masefield's  "Biography"  and  "Ships,"  Rupert  Brooke's 
"The  Great  Lover,"  and  Robert  Frost's  "The  Tuft  of 
Flowers." 

THE  TUFT  OF  FLOWERS 

I  went  to  turn  the  grass  once  after  one 
Who  mowed  it  in  the  dew  before  the  sun. 

The  dew  was  gone  that  made  his  blade  so  keen 
Before  I  came  to  view  the  levelled  scene. 

I  looked  for  him  behind  an  isle  of  trees; 
I  listened  for  his  whetstone  on  the  breeze. 


202  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

But  he  had  gone  his  way,  the  grass  all  mown, 
And  I  must  be,  as  he  had  been, — alone, 

"As  all  must  be/'  I  said  within  my  heart, 
"Whether  they  work  together  or  apart." 

But  as  I  said  it,  swift  there  passed  me  by 
On  noiseless  wing  a  bewildered  butterfly, 

Seeking  with  memories  grown  dim  over  night 
Some  resting  flower  of  yesterday's  delight. 

And  once  I  marked  his  flight  go  round  and  round, 
As  where  some  flower  lay  withering  on  the  ground. 

And  then  he  flew  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
And  then  on  tremulous  wing  came  back  to  me. 


I  thought  of  questions  that  have  no  reply, 
And  would  have  turned  to  toss  the  grass  to  dry ; 

But  he  turned  first,  and  led  my  eye  to  look 
At  a  tall  tuft  of  flowers  beside  a  brook, 

A  leaping  tongue  of  bloom  the  scythe  had  spared 
Beside  a  reedy  brook  the  scythe  had  bared. 

I  left  my  place  to  know  them  by  their  name, 
Finding  them  butterfly-weed  when  I  came. 

The  mower  in  the  dew  had  loved  them  thus, 
By  leaving  them  to  flourish,  not  for  us, 

Nor  yet  to  draw  one  thought  of  ours  to  him, 
But  from  sheer  morning  gladness  at  the  brim. 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  203 

The  butterfly  and  I  had  lit  upon, 
Nevertheless,  a  message  from  the  dawn, 

That  made  me  hear  the  wakening  birds  around, 
And  hear  his  long  scythe  whispering  to  the  ground, 

And  feel  a  spirit  kindred  to  my  own; 

So  that  henceforth  I  worked  no  more  alone; 

But  glad  with  him,  I  worked  as  with  his  aid, 
And  weary,  sought  at  noon  with  him  the  shade; 

And  dreaming,  as  it  were,  held  brotherly  speech 
With  one  whose  thought  I  had  not  hoped  to  reach. 

"Men  work  together,"  I  told  him  from  the  heart, 
"Whether  they  work  together  or  apart." 

Robert  Frost  (1875-  ) 

The  h^oic-^a-train,  as  it  is  usually  called,  is  a  stanza 
of  four  iambic  pentameter  lines  riming  abab.  The  form 
has  never  been  frequently  used  in  English  or  American 
poetry,  but  in  it  a  few  of  the  greatest  poems  have  been 
written.  The  rime  scheme  produces  an  effect  radically 
different  from  that  of  the  epigrammatic,  staccato  move- 
ment of  the  heroic  couplet.  It  is  best  adapted  to  thought- 
ful, often  melancholy  moods ;  its  rhythm  is  slower  and 
statelier  than  that  of  the  couplet.  An  excellent  illustra- 
tion of  the  different  effects  to  be  obtained  from  the  two 
forms  is  found  in  the  Shakespearean  sonnet,  which  con- 
sists of  three  heroic  quatrains  Ilolloweo7"by~  a  concluding 
couplet.  The  last  two  lines  of  the  sonnet  bring  a  change 
in  the  thought,  a  contrast  or  a  summary ;  and  the  change 
in  the  rime  scheme  emphasizes  the  change  in  thought. 


204  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Both  quatrain  and  couplet  effects  are  skilfully  com- 
bined in  several  of  the  stanzaic  forms  discussed  later  in 
this  chapter. 

The  most  famous  of  all  poems  in  the  heroic  quatrain  is 
Thomas  Gray's  "Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard." This  poem,  it  should  be  noted,  is  not,  strictly 
speaking,  an  elegy  at  all,  for,  unlike  Milton's  "Lycidas" 
and  Shelley's  "Adonais,"  it  is  not  a  lament  occasioned 
by  the  death  of  a  particular  person.  The  heroic  quatrain 
has  been  called  the  elegiac  stanza  because  of  its  supposed 
resemblance  to  the  Latin  elegiac  couplet.  Both  the  an- 
cient and  the  modern  form  are  well  adapted  to  reflective 
poetry.  In  Gray's  time  melancholy  was  the  poetic 
fashion.  Milton's  "II  Penseroso"  was  a  favorite,  and 
it  set  the  mood  for  the  so-called  "Graveyard  School"  of 
poets,  which  included  Collins,  Blair,  Young,  and  Gray. 
Bryant's  "Thanatopsis"  and  "Hymn  to  Death"  are  the 
American  representatives  of  this  melancholy  type  of 
poetry. 

As  poems  which  both  the  average  reader  and  the  critic 
alike  consider  great,  Gray's  "Elegy"  and  Poe's  "The 
Raven"  are  almost  unrivaled.  At  the  same  time,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  critics  have  frequently  preferred  the  less 
known  poems  of  both  Gray  and  Poe.  The  "Elegy"  is 
not  a  great  poem  because  of  any  profound  or  original 
idea  which  it  expresses,  for  every  thoughtful  man  and 
woman  who  has  visited  a  cemetery  has  had  the  same 
thoughts.  The  poem  is  great  because  Gray  has  given  to 
thoughts  common  to  all  men  the  finest  artistic  expression 
which  they  have  yet  found. 

The  chief  defect  to  be  found  in  the  "Elegy"  is  the  oc- 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER*  205 

casional  use  of  a  hackneyed  poetic  diction.  Eighteenth 
century  poets  disliked  to  call  a  spade  a  spade;  they  were 
much  more  likely  to  call  it  a  garden  implement.  Swain 
and  glebe  for  man  and  soil  are  examples.  The  concluding 
epitaph,  intended  for  the  poet  himself,  is  inferior  to  the 
remainder  of  the  poem  and  detracts  somewhat  from  its 
unity  of  tone.  Provoke,  in  the  eleventh  stanza,  is  used 
in  the  Latin  sense  of  call  forth.  In  the  second  stanza 
stillness  is  the  subject,  and  air  the  object,  of  holds.  In 
the  ninth  stanza,  which  is  often  misquoted,  hour  is  not 
the  object  but  the  subject  of  awaits;  "the  inevitable 
hour,"  or  death,  waits  in  ambush. 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such,  as  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bow'r, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring  heap, 


206  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twitt'ring  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  These  the  fault, 
If  Memory  o'er  their  Tomb  no  Trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  207 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confin'd; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 


208  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 


Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  names,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires: 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  Fires. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  the  unhonored  Dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  Spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  Swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  209 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 
Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 

Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 
Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the  lay, 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn:" 


THE  EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  Mis'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  Heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 


210  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771) 

Gray  was  one  of  the  most  careful  artists  who  ever  wrote 
in  verse.  He  worked  on  the  "Elegy"  intermittently  for 
seven  years,  and  published  it  at  last  only  to  prevent  its 
being  inaccurately  printed  by  an  unscrupulous  bookseller. 
Poe,  in  "The  Philosophy  of  Composition,"  states  that  if 
he  could  have  written  any  better  stanzas  than  that  which 
marks  the  climax  of  "The  Raven,"  he  would  "without 
scruple,  have  purposely  enfeebled  them,  so  as  not  to  inter- 
fere with  the  climacteric  effect."  Gray  discarded  as  un- 
suitable several  stanzas  which  are  as  beautiful  as  many 
which  he  used.  The  first  of  the  following  omitted  stanzas 
came  after  the  eighteenth  stanza,  and  the  second  imme- 
diately before  the  epitaph: 

Hark  how  the  sacred  Calm,  that  broods  around, 
Bids  ev'ry  fierce  tumultuous  Passion  cease, 

In  still  small  Accents  whisp'ring  from  the  Ground 
A  grateful  Earnest  of  eternal  Peace. 

There  scatter'd  oft  the  earliest  of  the  year 
By  hands  unseen  are  frequent  Violets  found; 

The  Robin  loves  to  build  and  warble  there, 
And  little  Footsteps  lightly  print  the  Ground. 

Though  never  widely  used,  the  heroic  quatrain  seems 
to  be  employed  as  frequently  today  as  it  has  ever  been. 
Three  of  Masefield's  best  poems,  "August,  1914,"  "The 
River,"  and  "The  'Wanderer,'  "  are  written  in  this  stanza. 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  211 

Vachel  Lindsay  and  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  also  use 
it  with  great  skill.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  following  poem, 
they  omit  the  rime  in  the  first  and  third  lines  of  each 
stanza.  In  this  poem,  as  in  his  "Richard  Cory,"  Rob- 
inson departs  widely  from  the  traditional  use  of  this 
measure.  It  is  astonishing  what  novel  effects  he  obtains 
from  the  stately  pensive  stanza  of  the  "Elegy  Written  in 
a  Country  Churchyard." 

MR.  FLOOD'S  PARTY 

Old  Eben  Flood,  climbing  alone  one  night 
Over  the  hill  between  the  town  below 
And  the  forsaken  upland  hermitage 
That  held  as  much  as  he  should  ever  know 
On  earth  again  of  home,  paused  warily. 
The  road  was  his  with  not  a  native  near; 
And  Eben,  having  leisure,  said  aloud, 
For  no  man  else  in  Tilbury  Town  to  hear : 

"Well,  Mr.  Flood,  we  have  the  harvest  moon 
Again,  and  we  may  not  have  many  more; 
The  bird  is  on  the  wing,  the  poet  says, 
And  you  and  I  have  said  it  here  before. 
Drink  to  the  bird."     He  raised  up  to  the  light 
The  jug  that  he  had  gone  so  far  to  fill, 
And  answered  huskily:  "Well,  Mr.  Flood, 
Since  you  propose  it,  I  believe  I  will." 

Alone,  as  if  enduring  to  the  end 
A  valiant  armor  of  scarred  hopes  outworn, 
He  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
Like  Roland's  ghost  winding  a  silent  horn. 
Below  him,  in  the  town  among  the  trees, 
Where  friends  of  other  days  had  honored  him, 


212  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

A  phantom  salutation  of  the  dead 

Rang  thinly  till  old  Eben's  eyes  were  dim. 

Then,  as  a  mother  lays  her  sleeping  child 

Down  tenderly,  fearing  it  may  awake, 

He  set  the  jug  down  slowly  at  his  feet 

With  trembling  care,  knowing  that  most  things  break; 

And  only  when  assured  that  on  firm  earth 

It  stood,  as  the  uncertain  lives  of  men 

Assuredly  did  not,  he  paced  away, 

And  with  his  hand  extended  paused  again: 

"Well,  Mr.   Flood,  we  have  not  met  like  this 
In  a  long  time;  and  many  a  change  has  come 
To  both  of  us,  I  fear,  since  last  it  was 
We  had  a  drop  together.     Welcome  home !" 
Convivially  returning  with  himself, 
Again  he  raised  the  jug  up  to  the  light; 
And  with  an  acquiescent  quaver  said: 

"Well,  Mr.  Flood,  if  you  insist,  I  might. 

"Only  a  very  little,  Mr.  Flood — 
For  auld  lang  syne.     No  more,  sir ;  that  will  do." 
So,  for  the  time,  apparently  it  did, 
And  Eben  evidently  thought  so  too; 
For  soon  amid  the  silver  loneliness 
Of  night  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  sang, 
Secure,  with  only  two  moons  listening, 
Until  the  whole  harmonious  landscape  rang — 

"For  auld  lang  syne."     The  weary  throat  gave  out, 
The  last  word  wavered;  and  the  song  being  done, 
He  raised  again  the  jug  regretfully 
And  shook  his  head,  and  was  again  alone. 
There  was  not  much  that  was  ahead  of  him, 
And  there  was  nothing  in  the  town  below — 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  213 

Where  strangers  would  have  shut  the  many  doors 
That  many  friends  had  opened  long  ago. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  (1869-  ) 

In  his  paraphrase  of  a  Persian  poem,  The  Rubdiydt 
of  Omar  Khayyam,  Edward  Fitzgerald  has  made  famous 
another  four-line  stanza,  which  rimes  aaba.  The  popu- 
larity of  the  Rubdiydt  in  its  day  was  due  in  part  to  a 
second  vogue  of  melancholy  poetry  in  the  last  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  We  quote  a  few  of  the  best  stanzas : 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  nutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing.     .    .    , 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow !     .    .    , 

Oh,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  Regret  and  future  Fears: 

To-morrow ! — Why,  To-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Sev'n  thousand  Years.    ... 

The  Moving  Finger  writes;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on:  nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it.     ... 

And  those  who  husbanded  the  Golden  grain, 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  winds  like  Rain, 

Alike  to  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turn'd 
As,  buried  once,  Men  want  dug  up  again. 


214  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  eight-line  stanza  known  as  ottava_rima,  riming 
abababcc,  is  more  common  in  Italian,  from  which  it  was 
borrowed,  than  in  English.  The  form  is  best  adapted  to 
satire;  admirable  examples  are  Byron's  "Beppo,"  "The 
Vision  of  Judgment,"  and  Don  Juan.  Whittier's 
"Ichabod"  and  Browning's  "The  Lost  Leader"  contain 
no  more  scathing  denunciation  than  "The  Vision  of  Judg- 
ment," in  which  Byron  expresses  his  opinion  of  Robert 
Southey  and  George  III. 

In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn 

Died  George  the  Third;  although  no  tyrant,  one 

Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  withdrawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun; 

A  better  farmer  ne'er  brush'd  dew  from  lawn, 
A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone! 

He  died — but  left  his  subjects  still  behind, 

One  half  as  mad — and  t'other  no  less  blind. 

He  died !  his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth : 
His  burial  made  some  pomp;  there  was  profusion 

Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 

Of  aught  save  tears — save  those  shed  by  collusion. 

For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true  worth; 
Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion — 

Bought  also;  and  the  torches,  cloaks,  and  banners, 

Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners 

Form'd  a  sepulchral  melodrame.     Of  all 

The  fools  who  flock'd  to  swell  or  see  the  show, 

Who  cared  about  the  corpse?     The  funeral 
Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  woe. 

There  throbb'd  not  there  a  thought  which  pierced  the  pall; 
And  when  the  gorgeous  coffin  was  laid  low, 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  215 

It  seem'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

The  rime  royal  stanza,  in  seven  lines  riming  ababbcc, 
owes  its  name — so  it  is  said — to  the  fact  that  King  James 
I  of  Scotland,  a  poetic  follower  of  Chaucer,  used  it. 
Chaucer  himself,  for  whom  the  stanza  should  have  been 
named,  used  it  with  consummate  skill  in  his  Troilus, 
The  Parliament  of  Fowls,  and  in  several  of  the  Canter- 
bury Tales.  Notable  poems  employing  the  rime  royal 
stanza  are  Shakespeare's  Lucrece  and  Wordsworth's 
"Resolution  and  Independence."  In  more  recent  times 
the  stanza  has  been  frequently  used  by  two  ardent  ad- 
mirers of  Chaucer — William  Morris  and  John  Masefield. 
Morris  prefixed  the  following  poem  to  The  Earthly 
Paradise. 

AN  APOLOGY 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 
Or  hope  again,  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days  die — 
— Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 


216  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our  bread 
These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
Or  long  time  take  their  memory  quite  away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due  time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked  straight? 
Let  it  suffice  me  that  my  murmuring  rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory  gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 
To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things  did  show 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December  day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where  tossed  about  all  hearts  of  men  must  be; 
.    Whose  ravening  monsters  mighty  men  shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

William  Morris  (1834-1896") 

John  Masefield  uses  rime  royal  in  Dauber,  The 
Widow  in  the  Bye  Street,  and  The  Daffodil  Fields. 
Although  Masefield  received  his  poetic  inspiration  from 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  217 

Chaucer,  his  use  of  rime  royal  has  little  of  the  Chaucerian 
melody  and  charm  which  Morris  often  recaptured;  in 
fact,  the  stanza  gives  an  entirely  different  effect,  that  of 
vividness  and  power.  We  quote  the  opening  stanzas  of 
The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street: 

Down  Bye  Street,  in  a  little  Shropshire  town, 
There  lived  a  widow  with  her  only  son: 
She  had  no  wealth  nor  title  to  renown, 
Nor  any  joyous  hours,  never  one. 
She  rose  from  ragged  mattress  before  sun 
And  stitched  all  day  until  her  eyes  were  red, 
And  had  to  stitch,  because  her  man  was  dead. 

Sometimes  she  fell  asleep,  she  stitched  so  hard, 

Letting  the  linen  fall  upon  the  floor; 

And  hungry  cats  would  steal  in  from  the  yard, 

And  mangy  chickens  pecked  about  the  door, 

Craning  their  necks  so  ragged  and  so  sore 

To  search  the  room  for  bread-crumbs,  or  for  mouse 

But  they  got  nothing  in  the  widow's  house. 

Mostly  she  made  her  bread  by  hemming  shrouds 
For  one  rich  undertaker  in  the  High  Street, 
Who  used  to  pray  that  folks  might  die  in  crowds 
And  that  their  friends  might  pay  to  let  them  lie  sweet ; 
And  when  one  died  the  widow  in  the  Bye  Street 
Stitched  night  and  day  to  give  the  worm  his  dole. 
The  dead  were  better  dressed  than  that  poor  soul. 

The  Spenserian  stanza,  named  for  Edmund  Spenser, 
who  first  used  it  in  The  Faerie  Queene,  is  the  most  stately 
and  impressive  stanzaic  form  in  English  poetry.  It  con- 
sists of  nine  lines  riming  ababbcbcc.  Its  rime  scheme  is 
identical  with  the  first  nine  lines  of  the  Spenserian  sonnet. 
The  ninth  line,  which  contains  six  feet  and  is  called  an 


218  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Alexandrine,  gives  a  full  round  close  to  the  stanza.  Some 
of  the  greatest  poems  in  English  have  been  written  in  this 
exceedingly  difficult  measure,  although  it  has  been  little 
used  during  the  past  hundred  years.  From  The  Faerie 
Queene,  we  quote  the  stanzas  which  describe  the  abode  of 
Morpheus,  the  god  of  sleep.  No  finer  example  of 
onomatopoeia  can  be  found  in  English  poetry.  Of  noth- 
ing he  takes  keep  means  he  pays  no  attention  to  any- 
thing. 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  'spersed  air, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deep, 
To  Morpheus'  house  doth  hastily  repair. 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steep, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peep, 
His  dwelling  is ;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steep 
In  silver  dew  his  ever-drooping  head, 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spread, 

Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast, 
The  one  fair  framed  of  burnished  ivory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast; 
And  wakeful  dogs  before  them  far  do  lie, 
Watching  to  banish  Care,  their  enemy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleep. 
By  them  the  sprite  doth  pass  in  quietly, 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned  deep 
In  drowsy  fit  he  finds:  of  nothing  he  takes  keep. 

And  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 

A  trickling  stream  from  high  rock  tumbling  down, 

And  ever-drizzling  rain  upon  the  loft, 

Mixed  with  a  murmuring  wind  much  like  the  soun' 

Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swoon. 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  219 

No  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cries, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  town, 
Might  there  be  heard;  but  careless  Quiet  lies 
Wrapped  in  eternal  silence  far  from  enemies. 

The  messenger  approaching  to  him  spake; 
But  his  waste  words  returned  to  him  in  vain: 
So  sound  he  slept  that  nought  mought  him  awake. 
Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  pushed  with  pain, 
Whereat  he  'gan  to  stretch ;  but  he  again 
Shook  him  so  hard  that  forced  him  to  speak. 
As  one  then  in  a  dream,  whose  drier  brain 
Is  tossed  with  troubled  sights  and  fancies  weak, 
He  mumbled  soft,  but  would  not  all  his  silence  break. 

James  Thomson,  a  Scottish  poet  of  the  early  eighteenth 
century,  was  a  forerunner  of  the  Romantic  poets.  His 
Seasons  is  one  of  the  earliest  of  nature  poems.  Though  a 
contemporary  of  Pope,  Thomson  wrote  not  in  the  almost 
universally  used  heroic  couplet,  but  in  Miltonic  blank 
verse  and  the  Spenserian  stanza.  The  following  passage 
from  his  Castle  of  Indolence  is  an  excellent  example 
of  onomatopoeia.  The  language  is  archaic  in  imitation 
of  Spenser.  Drowsy-head  means  drowsiness ;  eke,  also ; 
and  noyance,  annoyance. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was : 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky. 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast, 
And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hovered  nigh; 
But  whate'er  smackt  of  noyance,  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest. 


220  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

After  The  Faerie  Queene,  the  two  greatest  poems  in  the 
Spenserian  stanza  are  probably  Keats's  "Eve  of  St. 
Agnes"  and  Byron's  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.  We 
quote  the  opening  and  closing  stanzas  of  Keats's  poem. 
Seldom  do  we  find  a  poem  which  so  well  strikes  the  right 
note  in  the  opening  line  and  sustains  it  to  the  very  end. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold: 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith.  .  .  . 

And  they  are  gone:  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmar'd.    Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 

Byron's  use  of  the  Spenserian  stanza  differs  greatly 
from  Spenser's.  He  gives  the  measure  a  power  and  sweep 
which  compensate  for  the  melody  and  finish  which  his 
poetry  lacks.  Byron's  verse  is  singularly  uneven.  Some 
of  the  following  lines  are  poor,  and  one  is  actually  un- 
grammatical;  but  the  other  lines  are  almost  perfect  of 
their  kind.  We  quote  the  apostrophe  to  the  Ocean, 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  221 

probably  the  greatest  of  all  the  many  fine  passages  in 
English  poetry  which  deal  with  the  sea. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray, 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth — there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 


222  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since :  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave  or  savage;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form  V 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests:  in  all  time,  ^ 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm,*' 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime  «V 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — J* 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne  *> 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime  • 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each  zone  ** 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth  dread,  fathomless,  alone.*' 

In  terza  rima,  the  difficult  measure  used  by  Dante  in 
the  Divine  Comedy,  the  lines  are  grouped  in  divisions  of 
three  so  that  the  middle  rime  of  one  stanza  becomes  the 
initial  rime  of  the  next.  Each  section  of  the  poem  closes 
with  a  couplet.  As  the  stanzas  are  all  interlocked  by 
rime,  the  movement  is  not  stanzaic  but  continuous,  as  in 
blank  verse.  Shelley's  "Ode  to  the  West  Wind"  is  one 
of  the  greatest  of  longer  English  lyrics.  The  west  wind 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  223 

is  the  Italian  autumn  wind  which  brings  rain.  At  the 
time  the  poem  was  written,  Shelley,  then  living  in  Italy, 
was  perhaps  the  most  unpopular  poet  of  his  day. 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 


O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill; 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  Oh  hear ! 

II 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 


224  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst:  Oh  hear! 

HI 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves :  Oh  hear ! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  225 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!     I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.    Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit!     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 


The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !    O,  wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


226  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  ode  may  be  defined  as  a  lyric  poem,  longer  than 
the  song,  which  handles  a  lofty  theme  in  a  dignified  and 
impressive  manner.  There  are  as  to  metrical  form,  three 
kinds  of  odes :  regular,  irregular,  and  stanzaic.  The 
regular  ode  is  written  in  imitation  of  the  Greek  ode.  It 
consists  of  divisions  known  as  strophes,  antistrophes,  and 
epodes.  These  terms  allude  to  the  positions  assumed  by 
the  singers  of  the  ode.  All  the  strophes  must  have  ex- 
actly the  same  metrical  structure ;  so  also  with  the  epodes 
and  the  antistrophes.  Since,  however,  the  music  of 
Pindar's  odes  is  lost,  Cowley  and  other  English  poets 
came  to  imagine  that  the  structure  of  the  Greek  ode  was 
absolutely  irregular.  Hence  arose  the  irregular,  or 
Cowleyan,  ode.  Examples  of  this  type  are  Dryden's 
"Alexander's  Feast"  and  Wordsworth's  "Ode:  Intima- 
tions of  Immortality."  Gray's  "The  Progress  of  Poesy" 
is  an  excellent  example  of  the  regular  ode.  In  the  nine- 
teenth century  several  great  odes,  like  those  of  Keats, 
have  been  written  in  stanzaic  forms. 

As  in  the  case  of  free  verse,  the  rimed  poem  which  has 
no  regular  structure  has  been  much  attacked.  In  each 
case  the  line  of  defence  is  the  same.  The  Italian  critic 
Croce  and  the  Imagist  poets  of  today  tell  us  that  every 
poetic  idea  demands  its  own  special  form.  In  his  article 
on  Poetry  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Britarmica,  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton  pointed  out  the  principle  underlying  the 
seeming  lawlessness  of  such  irregular  poems  as  Milton's 
"Lycidas,"  Poe's  "The  Bells,"  and  Coleridge's  "Kubla 
Khan": 

"In  modern  prosody  the  arrangement  of  the  rhymes 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  227 

and  the  length  of  the  lines  in  any  rhymed  metrical  pas- 
sage may  be  determined  either  by  a  fixed  stanzaic  law,  or 
by  a  law  infinitely  deeper — by  the  law  which  impels  the 
soul,  in  a  state  of  poetic  exaltation,  to  seize  hold  of  every 
kind  of  metrical  aid,  such  as  rhyme,  caesura,  etc.,  for  the 
purpose  of  accentuating  and  marking  off  each  shade  of 
emotion  as  it  arises,  regardless  of  any  demands  of  stanza. 
...  If  a  metrical  passage  does  not  gain  immensely  by 
being  written  independently  of  stanzaic  law,  it  loses 
immensely.  ...  In  the  regular  metres  we  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  feeling  that  the  rhymes  will  inevitably  fall 
under  a  recognized  law  of  couplet  or  stanza.  But  if  the 
passage  flows  independently  of  these,  it  must  still  flow 
inevitably — it  must,  in  short,  show  that  it  is  governed 
by  another  and  a  yet  deeper  force,  the  inevitableness  of 
emotional  expression." 

Watts-Dunton  considered  "Kubla  Khan"  the  most  per- 
fect of  irregular  poems  in  English,  but  he  thought  Words- 
worth's "Ode:  Intimations  of  Immortality"  the  greatest 
of  all  English  odes  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  certain  pas- 
sages do  not  possess  complete  harmony  between  idea  and 
metrical  form. 

Changes  in  science  soon  render  scientific  writings  ob- 
solete— Sir  Isaac  Newton  gives  place  to  Einstein; — but 
the  obsolete  philosophy  and  psychology  on  which  Words- 
worth builded  do  not  materially  affect  the  value  of  his 
great  ode  to  us.  Although  a  philosopher  of  today  would 
give  different  reasons  for  a  belief  in  personal  immortality, 
Wordsworth's  ode  has  a  permanent  value  which  changes 
in  philosophy  and  psychology  are  powerless  to  affect.  In 


228  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

fairness  to  the  poet,  however,  it  should  be  said  that 
Wordsworth  did  not  mean  literally  to  advocate  the 
Platonic  belief  that  the  soul  exists  before  birth. 

ODE 

INTIMATIONS     OF     IMMORTALITY     FROM     RECOLLECTIONS     OF 
EARLY  CHILDHOOD 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

ii 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

HI 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  229 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday; — 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 


IV 


Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm: — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  j  oy  I  hear ! 

— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 


230  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary   gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  231 

VII 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 


VIII 


Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet!     Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 


232  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 


O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast: 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised: 


IAMBIC  PENTAMETER  233 

But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower: 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 


234  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forbode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  BALLAD 

I  knew  a  very  wise  man  that  believed  that  ...  if  a  man 
were  permitted  to  make  all  the  ballads,  he  need  not  care  who 
should  make  the  laws  of  a  nation. 

Andrew  Fletcher  of  Saltoun 

THE  ballad,  unlike  the  song,  is  not  lyric  but  narrative. 
It  is  not  the  expression  of  a  poet's  mood  or  emotion,  but 
the  story  of  a  bold  deed,  a  dramatic  incident,  a  chase,  or 
a  fight.  In  the  lyric  the  poet  tries  to  express  his  own 
feelings  as  completely  as  possible ;  in  the  ballad  he  effaces 
himself  in  order  that  his  characters  may  occupy  the  front 
of  the  stage. 

The  ballad  is  the  short  story  of  poetry ;  yet,  unlike  the 
prose  short  story,  which  of  all  the  important  literary 
types  is  the  youngest,  the  ballad  is  among  the  most 
ancient.  Only  the  folk-song  is  equally  old.  The  ballad 
is  older  than  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey;  in  fact,  these 
epics  had  their  beginnings  in  the  ballad.  The  merits 
of  a  good  ballad  are  much  the  same  as  those  of  the  prose 
short  story.  The  characters  and  incidents  must  be  in- 
teresting; and  the  story  must  be  vivid,  spirited,  full  of 
movement  and  action.  The  brevity  of  the  ballad,  how- 
ever, compels  its  author  to  select  a  simpler  story  and  to 
tell  it  more  directly  and  more  rapidly  than  he  would  tell 

235 


236  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

it  in  prose.  The  limitations  of  poetic  language,  more- 
over, force  him  to  suggest  rather  than  describe  in  detail 
his  characters  and  his  background. 

Ballads  are  of  two  distinct  types :  the  popular,  or  folk, 
ballad ;  and  the  literary,  or  artistic,  ballad.  The  literary 
ballad  is  the  work  of  one  author,  a  known  individual ;  the 
popular  ballad  is  the  work  of  unknown  authors,  so  nu- 
merous and  so  obscure  that  we  call  it  the  work  of  the 
people.  The  popular  ballad  is  much  the  older  of  the  two 
types ;  and  it  is  often,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  the  in- 
spiration of  the  literary  ballad. 

In  the  earliest  stage  the  popular  ballad  appears  to 
have  been,  like  the  folk-song,  always  chanted  or  sung, 
often  perhaps  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  dance.  Traces 
of  this  connection  of  the  ballad  with  music  are  to  be  seen 
in  the  choruses  and  refrains  which  some  of  the  ballads 
preserve.  Just  how  the  ballads  were  composed,  we  do 
not  know ;  and  authorities  disagree  rather  violently.  The 
orthodox  theory  is  that  they  were  composed  by  a  singing, 
dancing  group.  Professor  Louise  Pound,  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Nebraska,  has  attacked  this  theory  in  her  inter- 
esting Poetic  Origins  and  the  Ballad.  Her  theory  is  that 
the  ballads  were  written  by  individual  authors,  as  in  later 
poetry.  However  the  ballads  may  have  been  originally 
composed,  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  owe  their  chief 
stylistic  characteristics  to  the  way  in  which  they  have 
been  handed  down.  Every  one  who  has  played  the  old 
game  of  Gossip  knows  that  few  persons  can  accurately 
repeat  a  verbal  message  of  any  length.  One  word  or 
phrase  replaces  another  until,  by  the  time  the  sentence 
has  gone  round  the  circle,  it  seldom  bears  any  resem- 


THE  BALLAD  237 

blance  to  the  original  message.  The  popular  ballads  have 
been  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  without 
being  written  down.  Consequently,  so  many  changes 
have  crept  into  them  that  nearly  all  individual  traces  of 
the  original  author — if,  indeed,  the  ballad  was  ever  the 
work  of  one  man — have  vanished.  The  ballad  has  taken 
on  something  from  all  who  have  repeated  it ;  so  that  we 
may  truthfully  say  it  is  the  work  not  of  one  man  but  of 
the  people.  The  style  of  the  popular  ballad,  as  a  result 
of  this  process  of  transmission,  is  impersonal,  simple,  and 
direct.  The  ballad  rings  true  because  it  is  the  poem  of 
a  race  and  not  the  unrepresentative  work  of  one  man. 

The  popular  ballads  are  poetry  of  the  people,  by  the 
people,  and  for  the  people;  they  belong  to  a  time  when 
all  people  loved  poetry.  They  are  the  work  of  those  who 
had  no  other  literature.  American  cowboys,  miners, 
lumbermen,  and  mountaineers,  cut  off  from  books,  news- 
papers, and  theaters,  have  composed  or  borrowed  ballads, 
set  them  to  old  airs,  and  sung  them.  The  ballads  of  the 
Scottish  border  originated  doubtless  in  much  the  same 
way.  Such  primitive  poetry  often  possesses  the  power  of 
pleasing  even  the  cultivated  reader.  Of  the  ballad  of 
"Chevy  Chase"  the  scholarly  Sir  Philip  Sidney  wrote,  "I 
never  heard  the  old  song  of  Percy  and  Douglas,  that  I 
found  not  my  heart  more  moved  than  with  a  trumpet." 
Over  a  century  later  Addison  wrote  of  the  same  ballad, 
"It  is  impossible  that  anything  should  be  universally 
tasted  and  approved  by  a  multitude,  though  they  are  the 
rabble  of  a  nation,  which  hath  not  in  it  some  peculiar 
aptness  to  please  and  gratify  the  mind  of  man." 

When  the  people  in  isolated  districts  come  into  contact 


238  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

with  a  higher  civilization,  they  gradually  give  up  their 
splendid  ballads  for  songs  of  a  very  inferior  kind.  Thus, 
in  our  own  country,  the  cowboys  and  the  negroes  are 
giving  up  such  ballads  as  "Joe  Bowser"  and  "Frankie 
was  a  Good  Woman"  for  worthless  songs  from  the  vaude- 
ville stage.  In  the  same  way  some  of  the  finest  of  the  old 
British  ballads  have  been  irrecoverably  lost.  In  England 
there  was  little  interest  in  ballad-collecting  until  Bishop 
Percy  published  in  1765  his  Reliques  of  Ancient  English 
Poetry.  Percy's  collection  enormously  stimulated  the 
interest  of  scholars  and  poets  in  this  poetry  of  the  people. 
Since  his  time  many  of  the  great  English  poets, — among 
them  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Keats,  Rossetti,  and  Kipling, — 
have  found  in  the  old  ballads  inspiration  for  literary 
ballads  of  great  merit. 

The  popular  ballad  tells  its  story  with  the  smallest 
possible  amount  of  description  and  characterization.  As 
in  the  drama,  the  characters  reveal  themselves  by  what 
they  say  and  do.  In  the  following  ballad,  "Lord  Randal," 
none  of  the  three  characters  is  described,  and  the  sweet- 
heart is  not  even  present  ;yet  mother,  son,  and  sweetheart 
all  stand  clearly  revealed  in  the  dialogue  between  mother 
and  son.  The  mother's — and  the  reader's — suspicions  are 
gradually  aroused,  but  not  until  the  last  stanza  is  the 
tragic  event  made  clear.  With  this  climax  the  poem 
closes,  at  just  the  right  moment  and  with  exactly  the 
right  emphasis.  This  ballad,  though  it  seems  to  have 
originated  in  England  or  Scotland,  has  also  been  found 
in  various  parts  of  America.  The  word  down  is  here 
pronounced  so  as  to  rime  with  soon.  The  ballad  is  written 
in  anapestic  tetrameter  couplets. 


THE  BALLAD  239 

LORD  RANDAL 

"O  where  ha'e  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 

O  where  ha'e  ye  been,  my  handsome  young  man  ?" 

"I  ha'e  been  to  the  wildwood;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 

For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down." 

"Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 
Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  my  handsome  young  man?" 
"I  dined  wi'  my  true-love;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down." 

"What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 
What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  my  handsome  young  man?" 
"I  gat  eels  boiled  in  brew;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down." 

"What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  Lord  Randal  my  son? 
What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  my  handsome  young  man  ?" 
"O  they  swelled  and  they  died;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi'  hunting,  and  fain  would  lie  down." 

"O  I  fear  ye  are  poisoned,  Lord  Randal,  my  son! 
O  I  fear  ye  are  poisoned,  my  handsome  young  man !" 
"O  yes,  I  am  poisoned;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  sick  at  the  heart,  and  I  fain  would  lie  down." 

This  ballad  is  in  some  respects  so  crude  as  to  seem 
ridiculous,  but  it  was  not  meant  to  be  humorous.  A 
better  ballad  is  the  old  Scotch  ballad  of  "The  Twa 
Corbies,"  or  the  two  ravens.  A  great  poet  would  find  it 
difficult  to  give  more  effectively  the  impression  of  com- 
plete desertion  in  which  the  knight  dies.  The  reader  will 
bear  in  mind  that  Scottish  a,  ai,  and  au  generally  repre- 
sent English  o.  Tone  means  the  one;  t'ither,  the  other; 


240  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

theek,  thatch  or  line;  gowden,   golden;  gang,  go;  sail, 
shall ;  ae,  a  or  one. 

THE  TWA  CORBIES 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane; 

The  tane  unto  the  t'ither  say, 

"Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  to-day?" 

"In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke, 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new  slain  knight; 
And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there, 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  lady  fair. 

"His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 
So  we  may  mak  our  dinner  sweet. 

"Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pike  out  his  bonny  blue  een; 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

"Mony  a  one  for  him  makes  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane; 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair." 

Perhaps  the  best  of  all  the  British  popular  ballads  is 
the  one  which  Coleridge  referred  to  as  "The  grand  old 
ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence."  The  poem  is  written  in 
what  is  known  as  the  ballad  stanza,  although  extra  un- 
accented syllables  are  often  found.  Yestreen  means  yes- 


THE  BALLAD  241 

terday  evening;  shoon,  shoes;  aboon,  above;  kerns,  combs; 
half  owre,  halfway  over.  It  should  be  noted  that  in  the 
Scottish  dialect  the  relative  pronoun  is  frequently  omitted 
when  it  cannot  be  dropped  in  English. 

SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  town, 

Drinking  the  blood-red  wine: 
"O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 

To  sail  this  ship  of  mine?" 

Up  and  spak'  an  eldern  knicht, 

Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee: 
"Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor, 

That  sails  upon  the  sea." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  signed  it  wi'  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

A  loud  laugh  laughed  he; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blinded  his  e'e. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

This  ill  deed  done  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea ! 

"Mak'  haste,  mak'  haste,  my  merry  men  all, 

Our  guid  ship  sails  the  morn:" 
"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  dear, 

For  I  fear  a  deadly  storm. 


242  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moon, 
Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm, 

And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  dear  master, 
That  we  will  come  to  harm." 


O  our  Scots  nobles  were  right  laith 
To  wet  their  cork-heeled  shoon; 

But  lang  ere  a'  the  play  were  played, 
Their  hats  they  swam  aboon. 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 
Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 

Or  e'er  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  land. 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  stand, 
Wi'  their  gold  kerns  in  their  hair, 

Waiting  for  their  ain  dear  lords, 
For  they'll  see  them  na  mair. 

Haf  owre,  half  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fifty  fadom  deep, 
And  there  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 


The  popular  ballad  and  the  folk-song  are  very  closely 
akin.  "Fair  Helen"  has  been  classed  both  as  a  folk-song 
and  as  a  popular  ballad.  Perhaps  it  is  best  classed  as  a 
lyrical  ballad  though  not  in  the  sense  of  Wordsworth's 
Lyrical  Ballads.  It  is  one  of  the  exceedingly  few  folk- 
poems  which  Palgrave  included  in  The  Golden  Treasury. 
Burd  means  maiden;  meikle,  great. 


THE  BALLAD  243 

FAIR  HELEN 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies; 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought., 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succor  me ! 

0  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair 

When  my  Love  dropt  down  and  spak'  nae  mair ! 

1  laid  her  down  wi'  meikle  care 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea; 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare! 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair 
Until  the  day  I  die. 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says  "Haste  and  come  to  me!" 


244* 

0  Helen  fair!     O  Helen  chaste! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies; 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
Since  my  Love  died  for  me. 

The  favorite  hero  of  the  ballads  is  the  outlaw.  Robin 
Hood  and  Johnnie  Armstrong  are  the  great  heroes  of 
British  balladry.  The  outlaw  hero  is  the  enemy  of  the 
rich  and  the  friend  of  the  poor.  In  the  cowboy  ballads 
of  the  Western  plains  the  outlaw  plays  a  similar  role. 
Jesse  James  in  character  strikingly  resembles  Robin 
Hood,  and,  like  him,  is  betrayed  to  his  death  by  one  whom 
he  supposes  to  be  a  friend.  The  cowboy  ballads,  though 
inferior  to  the  best  of  the  British  ballads,  possess  the  same 
general  characteristics.  We  quote  from  John  A.  Lomax's 
Cowboy  Songs  and  Other  Frontier  Ballads. 

JESSE  JAMES 

Jesse  James  was  a  lad  that  killed  a-many  a  man; 
He  robbed  the  Danville  train. 

But  that  dirty  little  coward  that  shot  Mr.  Howard 
Has  laid  poor  Jesse  in  his  grave. 

Poor  Jesse  had  a  wife  to  mourn  for  his  life, 
Three  children,  they  were  brave. 


THE  BALLAD  245 

But  that  dirty  little  coward  that  shot  Mr.  Howard 
Has  laid  poor  Jesse  in  his  grave. 

It  was  Robert  Ford,  that  dirty  little  coward, 

I  wonder  how  he  does  feel, 

For  he  ate  of  Jesse's  bread  and  he  slept  in  Jesse's  bed, 

Then  laid  poor  Jesse  in  his  grave. 

Jesse  was  a  man,  a  friend  to  the  poor, 

He  never  could  see  a  man  suffer  pain: 

And  with  his  brother  Frank  he  robbed  the  Chicago  bank, 

And  stopped  the  Glendale  train. 

It  was  his  brother  Frank  that  robbed  the  Gallatin  bank, 
And  carried  the  money  from  the  town; 
It  was  in  this  very  place  that  they  had  a  little  race, 
For  they  shot  Captain  Sheets  to  the  ground. 

They  went  to  the  crossing  not  very  far  from  there, 
And  there  they  did  the  same; 

With  the  agent  on  his  knees,  he  delivered  up  the  keys 
To  the  outlaws,  Frank  and  Jesse  James. 

It  was  on  Wednesday  night,  the  moon  was  shining  bright, 

They  robbed  the  Glendale  train; 

The  people  they  did  say,  for  many  miles  away, 

It  was  robbed  by  Frank  and  Jesse  James. 

It  was  on  Saturday  night,  Jesse  was  at  home 
Talking  with  his  family  brave, 
Robert  Ford  came  along  like  a  thief  in  the  night 
And  laid  poor  Jesse  in  his  grave. 

The  people  held  their  breath  when  they  heard  of  Jesse's 

death, 
And  wondered  how  he  ever  came  to  die. 


246  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

It  was  one  of  the  gang  called  little  Robert  Ford, 
He  shot  poor  Jesse  on  the  sly. 

Jesse  went  to  his  rest  with  his  hand  on  his  breast; 
The  devil  will  be  upon  his  knee. 
He  was  born  one  day  in  the  county  of  Clay 
And  came  from  a  solitary  race. 

This  song  was  made  by  Billy  Gashade, 

As  soon  as  the  news  did  arrive; 

He  said  there  was  no  man  with  the  law  in  his  hand 

Who  could  take  Jesse  James  when  alive. 

The  literary  ballad  is  to  be  sharply  distinguished  from 
the  popular  ballad.  Fortunately,  we  have  a  unique  op- 
portunity to  compare  a  literary  ballad  with  the  popular 
ballad  upon  which  it  is  based.  Scott's  "Lochinvar"  had 
its  source  in  the  old  Scottish  ballad  "Katharine  Jaffray." 
The  reader  should  carefully  compare  these  poems  as 
examples  of  the  two  types  of  the  ballad.  Laird  means 
squire  or  lord ;  mitJier,  mother ;  sindry,  several  persons ; 
nouther,  neither;  garred,  made.  The  last  stanza  means: 
They  drag  you  about  from  place  to  place,  wear  you  out, 
and  poison  you. 

KATHARINE  JAFFRAY 

There  lived  a  lass  in  yonder  dale, 

And  down  in  yonder  glen,  O, 
And  Katharine  Jaffray  was  her  name, 

Well  known  by  many  men,  O. 

Out  came  the  Laird  of  Lauderdale, 
Out  frae  the  South  Countrie, 


THE  BALLAD  247 

All  for  to  court  this  pretty  maid, 
Her  bridegroom  for  to  be. 

He  has  telled  her  father  and  mither  baith 

And  a'  the  rest  o'  her  kin, 
And  has  telled  the  lass  hersel', 

And  her  consent  has  win. 

Then  came  the  Laird  of  Lochinton, 

Out  frae  the  English  border, 
All  for  to  court  this  pretty  maid, 

Well  mounted  in  good  order. 

He's  tell  her  father  and  mither  baith, 

As  I  hear  sindry  say, 
Be  he  has  nae  telled  the  lass  hersel', 

Till  on  her  wedding  day. 

When  day  was  set,  and  friends  were  met, 

And  married  to  be, 
Lord  Lauderdale  came  to  the  place, 

The  bridal  for  to  see. 

"O  are  you  come  for  sport,  young  man  ? 

Or  are  you  come  for  play? 
Or  are  you  come  for  a  sight  o'  our  bride, 

Just  on  her  wedding  day?" 

"I'm  nouther  come  for  sport,"  he  says, 

"Nor  am  I  come  for  play; 
But  if  I  had  one  sight  o'  your  bride, 

I'll  mount  and  ride  away." 

There  was  a  glass  of  the  red  wine 
Filled  up  them  atween, 


248  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  aye  she  drank  to  Lauderdale, 
Wha  her  true-love  had  been. 

Then  he  took  her  by  the  milk-white  hand, 

And  by  the  grass-green  sleeve, 
And  he  mounted  her  behind  him  there, 

At  the  bridegroom  he  asked  nae  leave. 

Then  the  blood  run  down  by  the  Cowden  Banks, 

And  down  by  Cowden  Braes, 
And  aye  she  garred  the  trumpet  sound, 

"O  this  is  foul,  foul  play !" 

Now  a'  ye  that  in  England  are, 

Or  are  in  England  born, 
Come  ne'er  to  Scotland  to  court  a  lass, 

Or  else  ye'll  get  the  scorn. 

They  haik  ye  up  and  settle  ye  by, 

Till  on  your  wedding  day, 
And  gi'e  ye  frogs  instead  o'  fish, 

And  play  ye  foul,  foul  play. 

Scott  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  old  ballads  of 
Scotland.  In  fact,  early  in  life  he  published  a  collection 
of  them  entitled  The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border. 
We  find  echoes  of  the  popular  ballads  in  many  of  his 
novels  and  poems.  "Lochinvar"  is  taken  from  his 
Marmion,  in  which  it  is  sung  as  a  song  by  Lady  Heron. 

LOCHINVAR 

Oh !  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  nore. 


THE  BALLAD  249 

He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none, 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late: 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all: 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, — 

For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word, — 

"Oh !  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" — 

"I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine, 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — • 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure !"  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume; 


250  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered  '"Twere  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood  near; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 

"She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur; 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran! 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 

Sir  Walter  Scott  (1771-1832) 

When  one  analyzes  the  two  ballads  to  find  what  it  is 
that  makes  them  so  different,  one  notices,  first,  that  Scott 
tells  his  story,  not  in  the  simple  ballad  stanza,  but  m_the 
more  appropriate  anapestic  couplet,  which,  as  we  have 
noted  in  Byron's  "Destruction  of  Sennacherib,"  is  pe- 
culiarly well  suited  to  stirring  action.  Scott  omits,  at 
the 'outset,  the  matter  contained  in  the  first  five  stanzas 
of  "Katharine  Jaffray"  because  he  wishes  to  emphasize 
only  the  chief  incident,  the  elopement.  The  skilful  artist 
is  known  by  what  he  rejects  as  clearly  as  by  what  he 
includes.  Scott's  most  striking  changes  are  seen  in  the 
rival  lovers.  In  the  old  ballad  the  lairds  are  distinguished 
chiefly  by  the  fact  that  the  Scotch  lover  is  successful, 
while  the  English  lover  is  cheated  of  his  bride.  Scott 
makes  Lochinvar  an  individual,  a  "person,"  The  opening 


THE  BALLAD  251 

stanza  and  the  comment  of  the  bride-maidens  give  us  his 
character:  he  is  a  handsome,  gallant,  impetuous  knight. 
He  is  just  the  man  to  dare  to  attempt  stealing  the  bride 
from  the  altar,  and  just  the  man,  too,  to  succeed  in  the 
attempt.  Of  the  English  lover  Scott  makes  "a  laggard 
in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war."  This  is  to  produce  an 
emphatic  contrast  between  the  two  lovers  and  to  lead  us 
to  sympathize  with  Lochinvar's  bold  theft  of  the  bride. 
In  the  old  ballad  the  English  lover  asks  the  newcomer  his 
business  at  the  wedding.  In  Scott's  poem  it  is  the  bride's 
father  who  boldly  challenges  Lochinvar  while  "the  poor 
craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word."  Finally,  Scott 
drops  the  moral  contained  in  the  last  two  stanzas  of 
"Katharine  Jaffray"  as  only  a  poor  Scottish  joke  at  the 
expense  of  the  English.  He  makes  us  sympathize  with 
Lochinvar,  not  because  he  is  a  Scotchman,  but  because 
he  is  the  better  man  of  the  two. 

Popular  ballads  seldom  or  never  have  the  faults  of 
artificiality,  false  sentiment,  and  over-sophistication, 
which  beset  the  cultivated  poet;  but  they  are  rarely 
notable  works  of  art.  At  their  best  they  are  deficient  in 
metrical  correctness,  and  rarely  display  any  of  the  finer 
rhythmical  harmonies.  The  literary  ballad  not  only  re- 
veals a  far  greater  command  of  the  resources  of  language 
and  versification;  it  also  shows  greater  skill  in  narration, 
description,  and  characterization. 

Nevertheless,  the  debt  of  the  literary  ballads  to  the 
popular  ballads  is  very  great.  Just  as  all  forms  of  the 
lyric  derive  ultimately  from  the  folk-song,  so  all  later 
narrative  poetry  has  its  beginnings  in  the  ballad.  More- 
over, the  old  ballads  are  still,  like  the  Bible  and  Greek 


252  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

mythology,  a  storehouse  from  which  later  poets  draw 
characters  and  incidents.  Scott  himself  borrowed  the 
Locksley  of  his  Ivanhoe  from  the  Robin  Hood  of  the  old 
ballads.  There  is  a  very  distinct  echo  of  "Sir  Patrick 
Spens"  in  Longfellow's  "Wreck  of  the  Hesperus"  and  in 
Masefield's  "Yarn  of  the  'Loch  Achray."'  Other  lit- 
erary ballads  which  owe  something  to  the  popular  ballads 
are  Wordsworth's  "Lucy  Gray,"  Keats's  "La  Belle  Dame 
sans  Merci,"  Tennyson's  "Lady  Clare,"  Rossetti's  "Troy 
Town"  and  "Sister  Helen,"  Yeats's  "Father  Gilligan," 
and  Kipling's  "Danny  Deever."  Longer  narrative  poems 
like  Coleridge's  "Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner"  and 
Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  also  owe  much  to  the 
old  ballads. 

"Danny  Deever,"  which,  to  the  music  of  Walter 
Damrosch,  is  often  sung  like  an  old  ballad,  recalls  "Lord 
Randal"  in  the  question  and  answer  method  by  which  the 
story  is  told.  Kipling  employs  the  ballad  stanza,  as  one 
may  see  from  dividing  his  long  lines ;  but  Kipling  varies 
his  refrain  with  a  consummate  skill  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  old  ballad-makers. 

DANNY  DEEVER 

"What  are  the  bugles  blowin'  for?"  said  Files-on-Parade. 

"To  turn  you  out,  to  turn  you  out/'  the  Colour-Sergeant  said. 

"What  makes  you  look  so   white,  so  white?"   said  Files-on- 
Parade. 

"I'm  dreadin'  what  I've  got  to  watch,"  the  Colour-Sergeant 

said. 

For  they're  hangin'   Danny   Deever,  you  can  hear  the 
Dead  March  play, 


THE  BALLAD  253 

The   regiment's    in    'ollow   square — they're   hangin'    him 

to-day ; 
They've   taken   of   his    buttons    off   an'   cut   his    stripes 

away, 
An'  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

"What  makes  the  rear-rank  breathe  so  'ard?"  said  Files-on- 

Parade. 

"It's  bitter  cold,  it's  bitter  cold/'  the  Colour-Sergeant  said. 
"What  makes  that  front-rank  man  fall  down?"  said  Files-on- 

Parade. 

"A  touch  o'  sun,  a  touch  o'  sun,"  the  Colour-Sergeant  said. 
They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  they  are  marching  of 

'im  round, 
They   'ave   'alted    Danny    Deever   by    'is    coffin    on    the 

ground ; 
An'  'e'll  swing  in  'arf  a  minute  for  a  sneakin'  shootin' 

hound — 
O  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin' ! 

"  'Is  cot  was  right-'and  cot  to  mine,"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"  'E's  sleepin'  out  an'  far  to-night,"  the  Colour-Sergeant  said. 
"I've  drunk  'is  beer  a  score  o'  times,"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"  'E's  drinkin'  bitter  beer  alone,"  the  Colour-Sergeant  said. 

They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you  must  mark  'im  to 
'is  place, 

For  'e  shot  a  comrade  sleepin' — you  must  look  'im  in  the 
face; 

Nine  'undred  of  'is  county  an'  the  Regiment's  disgrace, 

While  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

"What's  that  so  black  agin  the  sun?"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"It's  Danny  fightin'  'ard  for  life,"  the  Colour-Sergeant  said. 
"What's  that  that  whimpers  over'ead?"  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"It's  Danny's  soul  that's  passin'  now,"  the  Colour-Sergeant 
said. 


254  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

For  they're  done  with  Danny  Deever,  you  can  'ear  the 

quickstep  play, 

The  regiment's  in  column,  an'  they're  marchin'  us  away; 
Ho !  the  young  recruits  are  shakin',  an'  they'll  want  their 

beer  to-day, 
After  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin' ! 

Rudyard  Kipling  (1865-  ) 

There  are  echoes  of  both  Kipling  and  the  popular 
ballads  in  Masefield's  ballads,  which  often  attain  high 
excellence.  "The  Hounds  of  Hell"  and  "Cap  on  Head" 
are  unfortunately  too  long  for  quotation  here.  We  give 
the  first  of  his  Salt  Water  Poems  and  Ballads. 

THE  YARN  OF  THE  "LOCH  ACHRAY" 

The  "Loch  Achray"  was  a  clipper  tall 

With  seven-and-twenty  hands  in  all. 

Twenty  to  hand  and  reef  and  haul, 

A  skipper  to  sail  and  mates  to  bawl 

"Tally  on  to  the  tackle-fall, 

Heave  now  V  start  her,  heave  'n'  pawl !" 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

Her  crew  were  shipped  and  they  said  "Farewell, 
So-long,  my  Tottie,  my  lovely  gell; 
We  sail  to-day  if  we  fetch  to  hell, 
It's  time  we  tackled  the  wheel  a  spell." 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

The  dockside  loafers  talked  on  the  quay 
The  day  that  she  towed  down  to  sea: 
"Lord,  what  a  handsome  ship  she  be! 


THE  BALLAD  255 

Cheer  her,  sonny  boys,  three  times  three!" 
And  the  dockside  loafers  gave  her  a  shout 
As  the  red-funnelled  tug-boat  towed  her  out; 
They  gave  her  a  cheer  as  the  custom  is, 
And  the  crew  yelled  "Take  our  loves  to  Liz — 
Three  cheers,  bullies,  for  old  Pier  Head 
'N'  the  bloody  stay-at-homes!"  they  said. 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

In  the  grey  of  the  coming  on  of  night 
She  dropped  the  tug  at  the  Tuskar  Light, 
'N'  the  topsails  went  to  the  topmast  head 
To  a  chorus  that  fairly  awoke  the  dead. 
She  trimmed  her  yards  and  slanted  South 
With  her  royals  set  and  a  bone  in  her  mouth. 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

She  crossed  the  Line  and  all  went  well, 
They  ate,  they  slept,  and  they  struck  the  bell 
And  I  give  you  a  gospel  truth  when  I  state 
The  crowd  didn't  find  any  fault  with  the  Mate, 
But  one  night  off  the  River  Plate. 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

It  freshened  up  till  it  blew  like  thunder 
And  burrowed  her  deep  lee-scuppers  under. 
The  old  man  said,  "I  mean  to  hang  on 
Till  her  canvas  busts  or  her  sticks  are  gone" — 
Which  the  blushing  looney  did,  till  at  last 
Overboard  went  her  mizzen-mast. 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 


256  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Then  a  fierce  squall  struck  the  "Loch  Achray" 
And  bowed  her  down  to  her  water-way ; 
Her  main-shrouds  gave  and  her  forestay, 
And  a  green  sea  carried  her  wheel  away; 
Ere  the  watch  below  had  time  to  dress, 
She  was  cluttered  up  in  a  blushing  mess. 
Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 
An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 


She  couldn't  lay-to  nor  yet  pay-off, 
And  she  got  swept  clean  in  the  bloody  trough ; 
Her  masts  were  gone,  and  afore  you  knowed 
She  filled  by  the  head  and  down  she  goed. 
Her  crew  made  seven-and-twenty  dishes 
For  the  big  jack-sharks  and  the  little  fishes, 
And  over  their  bones  the  water  swishes. 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

The  wives  and  girls  they  watch  in  the  rain 
For  a  ship  as  won't  come  home  again. 
"I  reckon  it's  them  head-winds,"  they  say, 
She'll  be  home  to-morrow,  if  not  to-day. 
I'll  just  nip  home  'n'  I'll  air  the  sheets 
'N'  buy  the  fixins  'n'  cook  the  meats 
As  my  man  likes  'n'  as  my  man  eats." 

So  home  they  goes  by  the  windy  streets, 
Thinking  their  men  are  homeward  bound 
With  anchors  hungry  for  English  ground, 
And  the  bloody  fun  of  it  is,  they're  drowned! 

Hear  the  yarn  of  a  sailor, 

An  old  yarn  learned  at  sea. 

John  Mase field   (1878-  ) 


THE  BALLAD  257 

The  literary  ballad,  like  the  popular  ballad,  sometimes 
has  decided  lyrical  qualities.  In  a  superb  ballad  of  this 
kind,  "La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,"  Keats  turned  to  the 
earlier  period  when  people  believed  in  elves,  fairies,  and 
other  supernatural  beings  who,  they  thought,  exercised 
great  influence  upon  the  destinies  of  mankind.  Keats's 
beautiful  siren — the  title  means  "the  beautiful  lady  with- 
out pity" — induces  a  knight  to  fall  in  love  with  her  and 
then  deserts  him.  Keats's  stanza  is  the  ballad  stanza 
with  two  instead  of  three  feet  in  the  fourth  line.  In 
rhythmical  harmony,  pictorial  power,  and  suggestion, 
however,  Keats's  poem  immeasurably  surpasses  the  old 
ballads. 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

"O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering! 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

"O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

"I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too." 

"I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child. 


258  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

"I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 
She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

"I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 
For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

"She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  tlew, 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 
'I  love  thee  true.' 

"She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four. 

"And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd — Ah  !  woe  betide ! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

"I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 
They  cried — 'La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!' 

"I  saw  their  starv'd  lips  in  the  gloam, 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 
And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here, 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


THE  BALLAD  259 

"And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake 
And  no  birds  sing." 

John  Keats  (1795-1821) 

Perhaps  the  best  of  American  ballads  are  Longfellow's 
"Skeleton  in  Armor,"  Lanier's  "Revenge  of  Hamish,"  and 
Whittier's  "Skipper  Ireson's  Ride."  Lowell,  who  sug- 
gested to  Whittier  the  use  of  dialect  in  the  refrain,  called 
"Skipper  Ireson's  Ride"  "by  long  odds  the  best  of  modern 
ballads." 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 

Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 

On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 

Or  one-eyed  Calender's  horse  of  brass, 

Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 

Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak, — 

The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 

Was  Ireson's  out  from  Marblehead! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain: 


260  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  and  futherr'd  and  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang: 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Small  pity  for  him! — He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay, — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck ! 
"Lay  by !  lay  by !"  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "Sink  or  swim ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again !" 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea, — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away? — 


THE  BALLAD  261 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain: 
"Here's  Find  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead!" 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near: 

"Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !" 

"Hear  me,  neighbors !"  at  last  he  cried, — 
"What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me, — I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead !" 


262  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "God  has  touched  him!  why  should  we!" 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  an  only  son, 
"Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run !" 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (1807-1892) 

Much  of  the  best  of  recent  poetry  is  narrative.  Some 
of  the  ballads  of  Masefield  and  Noyes  are  worthy  of  com- 
parison with  those  of  Whittier  and  Tennyson.  Noyes's 
best  ballad  is  probably  "The  Highwayman,"  which,  like 
all  good  poems,  gains  immensely  from  being  read  aloud. 

THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

PART    ONE 


The  wind  was  a  torrent  of  darkness  among  the  gusty  trees, 
The  moon  was  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  up'on  cloudy  seas, 
The  road  was  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 
And  the  highwayman  came  riding — 

Riding — riding — 
The  highwayman  came  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 


THE  BALLAD  263 

n 

He'd  a  French  cocked-hat  on  his  forehead,  a  bunch  of  lace  at 

his  chin, 

A  coat  of  the  claret  velvet,  and  breeches  of  brown  doe-skin; 
They  fitted  with  never  a  wrinkle:  his  boots  were  up  to  the 

thigh ! 
And  he  rode  with  a  jewelled  twinkle, 

His  pistol  butts  a-twinkle, 
His  rapier  hilt  a-twinkle,  under  the  jewelled  sky. 

in 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clattered  and  clashed  in  the  dark  inn- 
yard, 

And  tapped  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  was  locked 
and  barred; 

He  whistled  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be  waiting 
there 

But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 

IV 

And  dark  in  the  dark  old  inn-yard  a  stable-wicket  creaked 
Where  Tim  the  ostler  listened ;  his  face  was  white  and  peaked ; 
His  eyes  were  hollows  of  madness,  his  hair  like  mouldy  hay; 
But  he  loved  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  red-lipped  daughter, 
Dumb  as  a  dog  he  listened,  and  he  heard  the  robber  say — 


"One  kiss,  my  bonny  sweetheart,  I'm  after  a  prize  to-night, 
But  I  shall  be  back  with  the  yellow  gold  before  the  morning 
light; 


264  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Yet,  if  they  press  me  sharply,  and  harry  me  through  the  day, 
Then  look  for  me  by  moonlight, 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight, 

I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar  the 
way." 

VI 

He  rose  upright  in  the  stirrups ;  he  scarce  could  reach  her 

hand, 
But  she  loosened  her  hair  i'  the  casement!     His  face  burnt 

like  a  brand 
As   the   black   cascade   of   perfume   came   tumbling  over   his 

breast ; 

(Oh,  sweet  black  waves  in  the  moonlight!) 
Then  he  tugged  at  his  rein  in  the  moonlight,  and  galloped 

away  to  the  West. 

PART  TWO 


He  did  not  come  in  the  dawning;  he  did  not  come  at  noon; 
And  out  o'  the  tawny  sunset,  before  the  rise  o'  the  moon, 
When  the  road  was  a  gipsy's  ribbon,  looping  the  purple  moor, 
A  red-coat  troop  came  marching — 

Marching — marching — 
King  George's  men  came  marching,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

n 

They  said  no  word  to  the  landlord,  they  drank  his  ale  instead, 
But  they  gagged  his  daughter  and  bound  her  to  the  foot  of  her 

narrow  bed; 
Two  of  them  knelt  at  her  casement,  with  muskets  at  their 

side! 


THE  BALLAD  265 

There  was  death  at  every  window; 

And  hell  at  one  dark  window; 

For  Bess  could  see    through  her  casement,  the  road  that  Tie 
would  ride. 

in 

They  had  tied  her  up  to  attention,  with  many  a  sniggering  j  est ; 
They  had  bound  a  musket  beside  her,  with  the  barrel  beneath 

her  breast ! 
"Now  keep  good  watch !"  and  they  kissed  her. 

She  heard  the  dead  man  say — 
Look  -for  me  by  moonlight; 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight; 

I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should  bar  the 
way! 

IV 

She  twisted  her  hands  behind  her ;  but  all  the  knots  held  good ! 
She  writhed  her  hands  till  her  fingers  were  wet  with  sweat  or 

blood ! 
They  stretched  and  strained  in  the  darkness,  and  the  hours 

crawled  by  like  years, 
Till  now,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 

Cold  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 
The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it!     The  trigger  at  least  was 

hers! 


The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it;  she  strove  no  more  for  the 

rest! 

Up,  she  stood  to  attention,  with  the  barrel  beneath  her  breast, 
She  would  not  risk  their  hearing;  she  would  not  strive  again; 
For  the  road  lay  bare  in  the  moonlight ; 

Blank  and  bare  in  the  moonlight; 


266  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  the  blood  of  her  veins  in  the  moonlight  throbbed  to  her 
love's  refrain. 

VI 

Tlot-tlot;   tlot-tlot!     Had  they  heard   it?     The  horse-hoofs 

ringing  clear; 
Tlot-tlot,  tlot-tlot,  in  the  distance?    Were  they  deaf  that  they 

did  not  hear  ? 

Down  the  ribbon  of  moonlight,  over  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
The  highwayman  came  riding, 

Riding,  riding! 
The  red-coats  looked  to  their  priming !    She  stood  up,  straight 

and  still! 

VII 

Tlot-tlot,  in  the   frosty  silence!      Tlot-tlot,  in  the   echoing 

night ! 

Nearer  he  came  and  nearer !    Her  face  was  like  a  light ! 
Her  eyes  grew  wide  for  a  moment;  she  drew  one  last  deep 

breath, 
Then  her  finger  moved  in  the  moonlight, 

Her  musket  shattered  the  moonlight, 
Shattered  her  breast  in  the  moonlight  and  warned  him — with 

her  death. 

VIII 

He  turned ;  he  spurred  to  the  West ;  he  did  not  know  who  stood 
Bowed,  with  her  head  o'er  the  musket,  drenched  with  her  own 

red  blood! 

Not  till  the  dawn  he  heard  it,  his  face  grew  grey  to  hear 
How  Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Had  watched  for  her  love  in  the  moonlight,  and  died  in  the 

darkness  there. 


THE  BALLAD  267 

IX 

Back,  he  spurred  like  a  madman,  shrieking  a  curse  to  the  sky, 
With   the   white   road   smoking   behind   him    and   his    rapier 

brandished  high! 
Blood-red  were  his  spurs  i'  the  golden  noon;  wine-red  was  his 

velvet  coat, 

When  they  shot  him  down  on  the  highway, 
Down  like  a  dog  on  the  highway, 
And  he  lay  in  his  blood  on  the  highway,  with  the  bunch  of  lace 

at  his  throat. 


And  still  of  a  winter's  night,  they  say,  when  the  wind  is  in  the 

trees, 

When  the  moon  is  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon  cloudy  seas, 
When  the  road  is  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the  purple  moor, 
A  highwayman  comes  riding — 

Riding — riding — 
A  highwayman  comes  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn-door. 

XI 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clatters  and  clangs  in  the  dark  inn-yard; 
He  taps  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  is  locked  and 

barred; 
He  whistles  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should  be  waiting 

there 

But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black  hair. 

Alfred  Noyes  (1880-  ) 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  SONNET 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument, — 
Memorial  from  the  Soul's  eternity 
To  one  dead  deathless  hour.  Look  that  it  be, 

Whether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 

Of  its  own  arduous  fullness  reverent: 
Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 
As  Day  or  Night  may  rule;  and  let  time  see 

Its  flowering  crest  impearled  and  orient. 

A  Sonnet  is  a  coin :  its  face  reveals 

The  soul, — its  converse,  to  what  Power  'tis  due: — 
Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  appeals 

Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 
It  serve:  or,  'mid  the  dark  wharf's  cavernous  breath, 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  (1828-1882} 

ALTHOUGH  primitive  poetry  was  largely  spontaneous 
and  more  or  less  irregular,  skill  provoked  emulation,  poets 
soon  followed  models,  and  many  fixed  stanzaic  forms 
eventually  became  established.  In  like  manner  at  a  later 
period  whole  poems  came  to  be  modeled  on  certain  struc- 
tural patterns,  the  chief  features  of  which  were  uniform- 
ity in  meter,  in  rime,  in  the  number  of  lines,  and,  some- 
times, in  the  use  of  a  refrain.  Great  poems  have  as  a 
rule  been  of  simple  structure,  but  the  greatest  poets 
have  often,  for  some  of  their  compositions,  delighted  in 

268 


THE  SONNET  269 

the  fixed  forms.  Because  of  their  difficulty,  these  forms 
challenge  the  careful  workman.  They  encourage  the 
search  for  the  right  word  and  compel  condensation. 
While  the  thought  may  be  as  varied  as  human  experience, 
the  form  offers  the  reader  the  pleasure  of  recognition. 

The  most  famous  of  all  the  fixed  forms  is  the  sonnet, 
great  examples  of  which  are  found  in  Italian,  French, 
German,  and  other  modern  languages  as  well  as  English. 
The  sonnet  was  a  product  of  the  early  Italian  Renais- 
sance,— a  period  when  the  crafts  of  the  goldsmith,  the 
painter,  and  the  poet  were  plied  with  equal  care  and  skill. 
It  was  introduced  into  England  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century  by  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  Henry  Howard,  Earl 
of  Surrey,  and  at  once  attained  a  remarkable  vogue. 
Shakespeare,  Spenser,  and  Sidney,  as  well  as  a  number 
of  minor  Elizabethan  poets,  wrote  sonnet  sequences. 
Between  the  death  of  Milton  and  the  dawn  of  the  Ro- 
mantic period  the  form  was  neglected,  but  from  the 
appearance  of  William  Lisle  Bowles's  Sonnets  in  1789  it 
has,  to  the  present  day,  embodied  some  of  the  finest 
thoughts  of  great  poets  both  English  and  American. 

In  poetry  written  in  English  there  are,  in  order  of  im- 
portance, three  main  types  of  the  sonnet:  the  Italian, 
the  Shakespearean,  and  the  Spenserian.  The  Italian,  or 
Petrarchan,  receives  its  name  from  the  fact  that  it  was 
used  by  Petrarch  and  other  Italian  poets.  Each  of  the 
other  two  types  takes  its  name  from  the  most  illustrious 
English  poet  who  early  made  an  extended  use  of  it. 

The  first  great  English  poet  to  use  the  Italian  sonnet 
form  was  the  scholarly  John  Milton.  Afflicted,  it  is  be- 
lieved, by  cataracts  which  a  modern  surgeon  could  have 


270  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

removed  in  an  hour,  the  poet  of  Comus  served  the  Com- 
monwealth in  spite  of  failing  eyesight,  and  lived  to  become 
the  author  of  Paradise  Lost.  Milton's  reaction  from  the 
gloom  of  blindness  is  given  in  a  sonnet  which  concludes 
with  one  of  the  most  frequently  quoted — and  misquoted — 
lines  in  the  language.  The  following  is  a  perfect  Italian 
sonnet  of  the  purest  type.  It  consists  of  fourteen  iambic 
pentameter  lines.  The  first  eight  lines  form  the  octave, 
which  rimes  abbanbba;  the  remaining  six  lines,  riming 
cdecde,  constitute  the  sestet. 

WHEN  I  CONSIDER 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide, — 

"Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask: — But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies:    "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  His  own  gifts:  who  best 

Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best:  His  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest: — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

John  Milton  (1608-1674) 

John  Keats — who,  among  English  poets,  was  peculiarly 
the  high  priest  of  beauty — was  especially  stirred  by  the 
art  and  mythology  of  ancient  Greece.  In  a  sonnet  he 
expressed  his  feelings  upon  first  reading  the  Iliad  and  the 


THE  SONNET  271 

Odyssey  in  the  translations  by  the  Elizabethan  poet, 
George  Chapman.  Keats,  of  course,  had  Balboa,  not 
Cortez,  in  mind.  Darien  is  the  Isthmus  of  Panama.  All 
that  was  said  of  the  form  of  Milton's  "When  I  Consider" 
is  true  of  this  sonnet  except  that  the  sestet  rimes  cdcdcd, 
a  succession  nearly  as  common  as  cdecde.  Whether  a 
sonnet  is  printed  in  two  divisions,  or  four,  or  three,  or 
one,  the  structural  principles  are  xhe  same. 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

John  Keats  (1795-1821) 

The  two  parts  of  the  Italian  sonnet  have  more  than  a 
stanzaic  significance.  The  thought  is  always  cast  in  a 
certain  form.  The  octave  presents  a  thought,  question, 
or  problem,  which  the  sestet  completes  appropriately. 
Verify  this  statement  with  regard  to  the  sonnets  already 
quoted,  observing  that  the  point  of  division  is  not  always 


272  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

coincidental  with  the  passing  from  octave  to  sestet.  The 
thought  of  the  octave  frequently,  in  fact,  runs  over 
into  the  first  half  of  the  next  line.  In  poorly  constructed 
sonnets  (which  may,  however,  be  excellent  poems)  the 
distinction  between  sestet  and  octave  is  not  strictly  main- 
tained. In  all  regular  sonnets  of  the  Italian  type  the 
rime  scheme  of  the  octave  is  abbaabba;  in  the  sestet,  how- 
ever, great  latitude  in  rime  is  allowed. 

Although  the  Italian  is  regarded  as  the  standard 
sonnet,  the  other  types,  particularly  the  Shakespearean, 
are  vehicles  for  some  superb  poems.  The  Shakespearean 
sonnet  does  not  afford  the  symphonic  effect  of  the  Italian, 
but  its  heroic  quatrains  produce  a  sweeping  movement, 
and  the  concluding  heroic  couplet  often  gives  to  the 
thought  an  effective  epigrammatic  turn.  The  rime  scheme 
of  the  three  quatrains  and  the  couplet  is  abab  cdcd  efef 
gg.  Shakespeare's  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  sonnets 
constitute  a  sequence  unparalleled  for  sustained  power 
and  beauty.  Like  Horace,  Ronsard,  and  other  poets,  the 
author  spoke  with  prophetic  confidence  of  his  future 
fame.  Strangely  enough,  however,  the  "fair  friend" 
whom  he  addresses  in  Sonnet  CIV  has  fallen  heir  to  an 
anonymous  immortality.  The  phrase  "eye  I  ey'd"  in  this 
sonnet  reflects  the  Elizabethan  fondness  for  conceits. 
"Fair  thou  ow'st"  means  beauty  you  possess.  A  number 
quoted  as  a  title  refers  to  the  sonnet's  place  in  its  cycle. 

XVIII 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 


THE  SONNET  273 

Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date: 

Sometimes  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd: 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 

By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimm'd. 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  ow'st; 

Nor  shall  death  brag  thou  wand'rest  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st: 

So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616) 

LXXI 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 

Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give,  warning  to  the  world,  that  I  am  fled 

From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell. 

Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 

The  hand  that  writ  it;  for  I  love  you  so 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot 

If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 

O  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 

When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 

Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay, 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616) 


274  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

CIV 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  ey'd, 

Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  summers'  pride; 

Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 

Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 

Ah !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 

Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceiv'd; 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceiv'd: 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred, — - 
Ere  you  were  born,  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616) 

The  following  example  of  the  Spenserian  sonnet  is  taken 
from  Spenser's  cycle  of  love  sonnets,  the  Amoretti.  Al- 
though the  poem  was  written  more  than  three  centuries 
ago,  the  word  fondness  (folly)  is  the  only  one  that  might 
not  be  used  today.  The  spelling  has,  however,  been  mod- 
ernized— as  is  usual  in  the  reprinting  of  Elizabethan 
works.  Extravagant  laudation  of  female  beauty  was 
common  in  the  court  circles  of  Renaissance  Europe. 
Well  known  is  Spenser's  own  lavish  praise  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  to  whom  he  dedicated  the  Faerie  Queene.  The 
Spenserian  sonnet  differs  from  the  Shakespearean  only 
in  that  the  quatrains  are  interlocked  by  rime,  the  scheme 
being  dbab  bcbc  cdcd  ee. 


THE  SONNET  275 

XXXVII 

What  guile  is  this,  that  those  her  golden  tresses 

She  doth  attire  under  a  net  of  gold; 
And  with  sly  skill  so  cunningly  them  dresses, 

That  which  is  gold,  or  hair,  may  scarce  be  told? 

Is  it  that  men's  frail  eyes,  which  gaze  too  bold, 
She  may  entangle  in  that  golden  snare; 

And,  being  caught,  may  craftily  enfold 

Their  weaker  hearts  which  are  not  well  aware? 

Take  heed,  therefore,  mine  eyes,  how  ye  do  stare 
Henceforth  too  rashly  on  that  guileful  net, 

In  which,  if  ever  ye  entrapped  are, 

Out  of  her  hands  ye  by  no  means  shall  get. 

Fondness  it  were  for  any,  being  free, 
To  covet  fetters,  though  they  golden  be! 

Edmund  Spenser   (1552?-1599) 

Despite  the  fact  that  George  Meredith  described  as 
sonnets  the  sixteen-line  poems  of  his  cycle  on  Modern 
Love,  the  term  should  be  understood  to  mean  invariably 
a  poem  of  exactly  fourteen  lines.  Iambic  pentameter  is 
equally  obligatory.  With  regard  to  rime,  however,  the 
requirements  are  more  flexible.  Fourteen  lines  of  blank 
verse  or  seven  heroic  couplets  do  not  constitute  a  sonnet, 
yet  the  term  is  applied  to  poems  which  depart  as  much 
from  the  norm  as  do  Shelley's  "Ozymandias"  and  Arnold's 
"Shakespeare."  Some  critics,  on  the  other  hand,  use  the 
term  sonnet  only  in  its  strictest  Italian  sense,  applying 
to  the  Shakespearean  model  the  term  fourteener.  Below 


276  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

are  given  different  types  of  sonnets  representing  every 
age  in  which  the  form  has  flourished  in  English. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  died  from  battle-wounds  at  the 
age  of  thirty-two,  was  famous  as  a  courtier,  poet,  critic, 
ambassador,  and  soldier.  Especially  when  one  considers 
that  the  author  wrote  before  any  of  the  great  poets  of 
modern  England,  the  sonnet  below  is  enough  to  prove 
the  eminence  of  his  poetic  genius.  Sidney's  cycle  is 
entitled  Astrophel  and  Stella.  Astrophel  was,  of  course, 
the  author.  Stella  was  probably  the  Lady  Penelope 
Devereux,  whose  parents  broke  her  betrothal  to  Sidney 
in  order  to  marry  her  to  a  wealthy  nobleman.  Rosy 
seems  to  imply  the  idea  of  sub  rosa,  i.e.,  quiet,  silent. 
Prease  is  modern  press ;  the  old  form  is  retained  for  the 
sake  of  rime.  This  sonnet  is,  in  rime,  a  Shakespearean 
and  Spenserian  hybrid. 

XXXIX 

Come,  Sleep !    O  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 

The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 

With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

O  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 
I  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light, 

A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head: 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 


THE  SONNET  277 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1586) 

The  next  sonnet,  with  its  strict  Shakespearean  form 
and  the  unexpected  turn  of  thought  in  the  couplet,  is  from 
Drayton's  cycle  entitled  Idea.  It  shows  more  sincerity  of 
feeling  than  most  Elizabethan  sonnets. 

LXI 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part — 
Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me; 

And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free ; 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 
When,  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 

When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 

— Now  if  thou  would'st  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover ! 

Michael  Drayton  (1561-1631) 

Milton's  "On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont"  gives  an 
English  attitude  toward  the  slaughter — by  troops  of  the 
Turin  government — of  Protestants  in  the  Italian  province 
of  Piedmont.  Milton  served  in  a  dual  capacity;  he  not 
only  wrote  the  sonnet,  but,  as  foreign  secretary,  penned 


278  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

in  Latin  Cromwell's  sharp  reply  which  protected  the 
survivors.  To  the  Puritans,  the  church  of  Rome  was 
Babylon. 

ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEDMONT 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 

Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 

Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not:  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 

Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 

Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  Tyrant,  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  thy  way, 

Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

John  Milton  (1608-1674) 

Wordsworth's  sonnets  do  not  show  the  sustained  ex- 
cellence of  Shakespeare's,  but  for  lofty  theme  and  notable 
expression  a  few  stand  near  the  head  of  any  list.  Among 
this  number  are  "London,  1802"  and  "The  World  is  Too 
Much  with  Us,"  both  of  which  voice  a  young  poet's  dis- 
satisfaction with  the  spirit  of  his  age. 

LONDON,  1802 

Milton !  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside^  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 


THE  SONNET  279 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.    We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea: 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 


THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 

The  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 

It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 

A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

William   Wordsworth   (1770-1850) 

In  his  life  and  his  poetry,  Byron,  like  Milton,  rendered 
service  to  the  cause  of  human  liberty.  He  met  his  death 
in  Greece,  whither  he  had  gone  to  lend  a  hand  in  the 


280  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

struggle  for  independence.  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon" 
is  widely  known.  We  quote  the  prefatory  sonnet. 
Chillon  was  an  island  prison  in  the  Lake  of  Geneva ; 
Bonnivard  was  a  Genevan  patriot  imprisoned  there  at  a 
time  when  the  city  was  under  foreign  domination.  Note 
that  the  typical  rime  order  of  the  octave  is  not  here 
observed. 

SONNET  ON  CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  Thee  alone  can  bind; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  day  less  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar,  for  'twas  trod, 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard  !     May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  Goji^. 
George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  Byroj^  (1788-1824) 

Though  Shelley,  like  Byron,  wrote  few  sonnets,  his 
"O/ymandias"  was  before  Masefield  perhaps  the  finest 
expression  in  English  of  the  obliterating  power  of  time — a 
power  that  literary  art  alone  seems  able  to  withstand. 
There  was  apparently  no  such  ruler  as  Ozymandias ; 
consequently  Shelley  coined  for  the  king  a  sonorous 
imperial  name.  "Ozymandias"  seemingly  reflects  its 
author's  impression  of  Napoleon. 


THE  SONNET  281 

OZYMANDIAS 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said:  "Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 

And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command, 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 

Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mock'd  them  and  the  heart  that  fed; 

And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear — 
'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings : 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!'   ,. 

Nothing  beside  remains.    Round  the  decay 

OS  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away." 

Percy  Eysshe  Shelley  (1792-1822) 

An  excellent  idea  of  the  range  of  poetic  subject  matter 
may  be  acquired  by  comparing  the  foregoing  sonnet  and 
the  following.  The  "king  of  kings"  and  the  cricket — 
there  is  something  in  each  for  the  interpretative  imagina- 
tion of  the  poet.  "On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket" 
was  composed  under  interesting  circumstances.  Cowden 
Clarke,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  Keats  were  passing  an  evening 
together  discussing  poetry.  Keats  maintained  that 
poetry  could  be  found  in  everything.  Clarke  was  skepti- 
cal and,  perhaps  not  knowing  that  Cowley  and  Lovelace 
had  used  it,  suggested  the  grasshopper  as  an  impossible 
subject.  The  result  was  two  great  sonnets,  one  by  Keats 
and  one  by  Hunt. 


282  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights ;  for,  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

f  " 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never:  >^ 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever^ 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

John  Keats  (1795-1821) 

Several  nineteenth  century  poets  have  followed  the 
Elizabethan  custom  of  writing  a  cycle  of  sonnets  on 
love.  Meredith's  Modern  Love  has  been  mentioned.  Less 
analytic  than  Rossetti's  The  House  of  Life  and  less 
pretentious  than  Bridges's  The  Growth  of  Love,  Mrs. 
Browning's  Sonnets  from  tJie  Portuguese  constituted  the 
most  widely  read  cycle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The 
sonnets  express  vividly  the  romantic  love  of  the  author 
for  her  poet  husband.  Mrs.  Browning  was  a  brunette, 
and  her  husband  often  playfully  termed  her  "the  Portu- 
guese"— a  title  under  which,  following  the  early  cus- 
tom of  respectable  women  writers,  she  preserved  her 
anonymity. 


THE  SONNET  283 

XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee?     Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's  j^-» 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life ! — and,  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  (1806-1861) 

Robert  Bridges,  the  present  poet  laureate  of  England, 
is  the  successor  of  Alfred  Austin,  Alfred  Tennyson, 
William  Wordsworth,  and  Robert  Southey — to  name  the 
laureates  of  the  past  century  only.  The  laureate  need 
not  necessarily  be  the  greatest  poet  of  his  generation,  but 
he  should  be  a  man  of  correct  life  and  an  upholder  of  the 
classic  traditions  of  English  poetry.  He  has  no  pre- 
scribed duties,  but  is  expected  to  celebrate  in  verse  im- 
portant occasions  or  anniversaries  in  the  life  of  the 
sovereign  or  the  history  of  the  nation.  Although  in 
neither  of  these  categories,  the  sonnet  chosen  from  The 
Growth  of  Love  is  the  appropriate  utterance  of  a  poet 
laureate,  for  it  states  the  essentials  of  a  nation's  great- 
ness— the  strength,  ambition,  and  purity  of  its  youth. 
Note  the  elaborate  figure  of  speech. 


284  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

XV 

Who  builds  a  ship  must  first  lay  down  the  keel 
Of  health,  whereto  the  ribs  of  mirth  are  wed: 
And  knit,  with  beams  and  knees  of  strength,  a  bed 

For  decks  of  purity,  her  floor  and  ceil. 

Upon  her  masts,  Adventure,  Pride,  and  Zeal, 
To  fortune's  wind  the  sails  of  purpose  spread: 
And  at  the  prow  make  figured  maidenhead 

O'erride  the  seas  and  answer  to  the  wheel. 

And  let  him  deep  in  memory's  hold  have  stor'd 

Water  of  Helicon:  and  let  him  fit 
The  needle  that  doth  true  with  heaven  accord: 

Then  bid  her  crew,  love,  diligence  and  wit 
With  justice,  courage,  temperance  come  aboard, 

And  at  her  helm  the  master  reason  sit. 

Robert  Bridges  (1844-  ) 

Rupert  Brooke's  talent  was  rapidly  matured  into 
authenticity  by  the  World  War.  Like  Byron,  Brooke 
met  death  while  serving  the  cause  of  liberty  in  the  Near 
East.  Partly  because  of  his  merit  and  apparent  promise, 
partly  because  of  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  his  post- 
humous fame  has  been  considerable.  From  a  sequence  of 
five  sonnets  entitled  "Nineteen-Fourteen"  we  quote  the 
deservedly  popular 

THE  SOLDIER  <- 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  forever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 


THE  SONNET  285 

A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 
Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam; 

A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 
Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given; 
Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends,  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooke  (1887-1915) 

Literary  criticism  is  not  exactly  within  the  province 
of  poetry,  but  one  occasionally  finds  in  verse  a  rare 
tribute  or  appreciation.  Arnold's  "Shakespeare,"  though 
it  alludes  only  to  Shakespeare's  tragedies,  is  unsurpassed ; 
and  Watson's  sonnet  rivals  it  closely.  Sir  Sidney  Lee's 
Life  is  a  recent  exhaustive  biography  of  Shakespeare. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free. 

We  ask  and  ask:   Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 

Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill 
That  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  stedfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

Making  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  his  dwelling-place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality: 
And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 

Self-school'd,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self-secure, 
Didst  walk  on  Earth  unguess'd  at.     Better  so ! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure. 


286  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

All  weakness  that  impairs,  all  griefs  that  bow, 
Find  their  sole  voice  in  that  victorious  brow. 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888) 

WRITTEN  IN  MR.  SIDNEY  LEE'S  "LIFE  OF 
SHAKESPEARE" 

Lee,  who  in  niggard  soil  hast  delved,  to  find 

What  things  soever  may  be  known  or  guessed 

Of  him  that  to  the  ages  gives  no  rest, 
The  world-watched  secret  peak  of  human  mind; 
Thy  choice  was  well,  who  leav'st  to  fools  and  blind 

All  visionary,  vague,  fantastic  quest. 

None  to  the  Presence  hath  more  nearly  pressed, 
Nor  hast  thou  him  dis-served  to  serve  mankind. 

'Tis  said  of  certain  poets,  that  writ  large 

Their  sombre  names  on  tragic  stage  and  tome, 

They  are  gulfs  or  estuaries  of  Shakespeare's  sea. 
Lofty  the  praise;  and  honour  enough,  to  be 
As  children  playing  by  his  mighty  marge, 

Glorious  with  casual  sprinklings  of  the  foam. 

Sir  William  Watson  (1858-  ) 

Many  great  poets  have  been  translators.  Chapman, 
Pope,  Cowper,  and  Bryant  translated  Homer,  and  opened 
up  "the  glory  that  was  Greece"  to  hundreds  of  thousands 
who  could  not  read  the  original.  Longfellow,  one  of  the 
most  scholarly  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  popular  of  poets, 
translated  the  Divine  Comedy  of  Dante.  To  his  transla- 
tion he  prefixed  a  number  of  sonnets,  two  of  which,  here 
reproduced,  are  among  the  best  in  American  poetry.  The 
first  contains  an  excellent  picture  of  the  artist's  close 
identification  with  his  work.  While  translating  Dante, 


THE  SONNET  287 

Longfellow  forgot  the  Civil  War  which  was  then  raging, 
forgot  the  tragic  death  of  his  wife,  and  felt  that  he  lived 
in  the  dawning  years  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 


Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 

Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 

Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 

So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 

Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 
The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 

To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (1807-1882) 

VI 

O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty! 

O  bringer  of  the  light,  whose  splendor  shines 

Above  the  darkness  of  the  Apennines, 

Forerunner  of  the  day  that  is  to  be ! 

The  voices  of  the  city  and  the  sea, 

The  voices  of  the  mountains  and  the  pines, 
Repeat  thy  "song,  till  the  familiar  lines 

Are  footpaths  for  the  thought  of  Italy ! 

Thy  fame  is  blown  abroad  from  all  the  heights, 
Through,  all  the  nations ;  and  a  sound  is  heard, 
As  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  men  devout, 


288  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Strangers  of  Rome,  and  the  new  proselytes, 

In  their  own  language  hear  thy  wondrous  word, 
And  many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt. 

Henry   Wadsworth  Longfellow  (1807-1882) 

John  Masefield  is  one  of  the  greatest  poets  alive  today, 
and,  in  the  number  and  power  of  his  sonnets,  is  cer- 
tainly the  greatest  sonneteer  since  Wordsworth.  He 
probably  reached  the  acme  of  his  skill  in  the  series,  merely 
entitled  "Sonnets,"  the  initial  line  of  the  first  member  of 
which  is 

Like  bones  the  ruins  of  the  cities  stand. 

We  quote  from  this  series  the  second  sonnet  which  may  be 
profitably  compared  with  Shelley's  "Ozymandias"  and 
with  "The  Dead  Village,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson. 

II 

1  Now  they  are  gone  with  all  their  songs  and  sins, 
Women  and  men,  to  dust;  their  copper  penny, 
Of  living,  spent,  among  these  dusty  inns ; 
The  glittering  One  made  level  with  the  many. 

Their  speech  is  gone,  none  speaks  it,  none  can  read 
The  pictured  writing  of  their  conqueror's  march; 
The  dropping  plaster  of  a  fading  screed 
Ceils  with  its  mildews  the  decaying,  arch. 

The  fields  are  sand,  the  streets  are  fallen  stones; 
Nothing  is  bought  or  sold  there,  nothing  spoken, 
The  sand  hides  all,  the  wind  that  blows  it  moans, 
Blowing  more  sand  until  the  plinth  is  broken. 


THE  SONNET  289 

Day  in,  day  out,  no  other  utterance  falls ; 
Only  the  sand,  pit-pitting  on  the  walls. 

John  Masefield  (1874-  ) 

We  quote  two  other  examples  from  Masefield's  several 
dozen  masterly  sonnets  which  ring  varying  chimes  on  the 
universal  subjects,  love,  beauty,  and  decay.  Part  of  the 
thought  of  the  first  sonnet  is  expressed  in  the  well-known 
quatrain  from  the  Rubdiydt: 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled; 

That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  its  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  Head. 

The  second  is  the  first  in  a  series  of  two  entitled  "On 
Growing  Old." 

I  NEVER  SEE  THE  RED  ROSE  CROWN  THE  YEAR 

I  never  see  the  red  rose  crown  the  year,  j 

Nor  feel  the  young  grass  underneath  my  tread, 
Without  the  thought  "This  living  beauty  here 
Is  earth's  remembrance  of  a  beauty  dead. 
Surely  where  all  this  glory  is  displayed 
Love  has  been  quick,  like  fire,  to  high  ends, 
Here,  in  this  grass,  an  altar  has  been  made 
For  some  white  joy,  some  sacrifice  of  friends; 
Here,  where  I  stand,  some  leap  of  human  brains 
Has  touched  immortal  things  and  left  its  trace, 
The  earth  is  happy  here,  the  gleam  remains ; 
Beauty  is  here,  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
I  touch  the  faith  which  nothing  can  destroy, 
The  earth,  the  living  church  of  ancient  joy." 

John  Masefield  (1874-  ) 


290  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

ON  GROWING  OLD 
I 

Be  with  me,  Beauty,  for  the  fire  is  dying, 

My  dog  and  I  are  old,  too  old  for  roving, 

Man,  whose  young  passion  sets  the  spindrift  flying, 

Is  soon  too  lame  to  march,  too  cold  for  loving. 

I  take  the  book  and  gather  to  the  fire, 
Turning  old  yellow  leaves ;  minute  by  minute, 
The  clock  ticks  to  my  heart;  a  withered  wire 
Moves  a  thin  ghost  of  music  in  the  spinet. 

I  cannot  sail  your  seas,  I  cannot  wander 

Your  cornland,  nor  your  hill-land  nor  your  valleys, 

Ever  again,  nor  share  the  battle  yonder 

Where  the  young  knight  the  broken  squadron  rallies. 

Only  stay  quiet  while  my  mind  remembers 
The  beauty  of  fire  from  the  beauty  of  embers. 

John  Masefield  (1874-  ) 

The  contrast  between  Masefield  and  his  greatest  rival 
sonneteer,  the  American  poet,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson, 
is — to  a  certain  extent — the  contrast  between  the  Shake- 
spearean and  the  Italian  sonnet.  Masefield  shows  fire; 
Robinson  restraint.  Masefield  is  exuberant;  Robinson, 
subtle.  "Firelight"  and  "Souvenir"  illustrate  Robinson's 
mature  manner. 

FIRELIGHT 

Ten  years  together  without  yet  a  cloud, 
They  seek  each  other's  eyes  at  intervals 
Of  gratefulness  to  firelight  and  four  walls 


THE  SONNET  291 

For  love's  obliteration  of  the  crowd. 
Serenely  and  perennially  endowed 
And  bowered  as  few  may  be,  their  joy  recalls 
No  snake,  no  sword ;  and  over  them  there  falls 
The  blessing  of  what  neither  says  aloud. 

Wiser  for  silence,  they  were  not  so  glad 
Were  she  to  read  the  graven  tale  of  lines 
On  the  wan  face  of  one  somewhere  alone; 
Nor  were  they  more  content  could  he  have  had 
Her  thoughts  a  moment  since  of  one  who  shines 
Apart,  and  would  be  hers  if  he  had  known. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  (1869-  ) 

SOUVENIR 

A  vanished  house  that  for  an  hour  I  knew 
By  some  forgotten  chance  when  I  was  young 
Had  once  a  glimmering  window  overhung 
With  honeysuckle  wet  with  evening  dew. 
Along  the  path  tall  dusky  dahlias  grew, 
And  shadowy  hydrangeas  reached  and  swung 
Ferociously;  and  over  me,  among 
The  moths  and  mysteries,  a  blurred  bat  flew. 

Somewhere  within  there  were  dim  presences 
Of  days  that  hovered  and  of  years  gone  by. 
I  waited,  and  between  their  silences 
There  was  an  evanescent  faded  noise ; l 
And  though  a  child,  I  knew  it  was  the  voice 
Of  one  whose  occupation  was  to  die. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson   (1869-  ) 

After  reading  a  score  of  famous  examples,  one  will 
doubly  appreciate  two  or  three  sonnets  on  the  sonnet. 
Rossetti's,  quoted  as  a  motto  at  the  beginning  of  the 


292  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

chapter,  is  purely  critical.  Wordsworth's  sonnet  is  less 
critical  than  historical.  Dante,  Petrarch,  and  Tasso  were 
the  supreme  poets  of  Italy.  Camoens,  author  of  the  epic 
The  Lusiads,  was  the  greatest  poet  of  Portugal.  Shake- 
speare, Spenser,  and  Milton  were  the  greatest  English 
sonneteers  before  Wordsworth  himself. 


SCORN  NOT  THE  SONNET 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 
Mindless  of  its  j  ust  honours ;  with  this  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the  melody 

Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound; 

A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound; 
With  it  Camoens. soothed  an  exile's  grief; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf  ^» 

Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 


His  visionary  brow:  a  glow-worm  lamp,  S. 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land  3 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways;  and;  when  a  damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of. -Milton, -.in  his  hand  '^ 
The  Thing  became  ay  trumpet,  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  jstrajns — alas,  too  few  !      ^       ^ 

V  William   Wordsworth  (mO-1850) 


Other  excellent  sonnets  on  the  sonnet  are  "Nuns  fret 
not,"  by  William  Wordsworth;  "The  Sonnet,"  by 
Richard  Watson  Gilder;  "The  Master  and  the  Slave,"  by 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  and  "The  Sonnet,"  by  the 
Australasian  poet,  Louis  Lavater.  From  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  we  quote 


THE  SONNET  293 

THE  SONNET'S  VOICE 

Yon  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach 

Fall  back  in,  foam  beneath  the  star-shine  clear, 
The  while  my  rhymes  are  murmuring  in  your  ear, 

A  restless  lore  like  that  the  billows  teach; 

For  on  these  sonnet-waves  my  soul  would  reach 
From  its  own  depths,  and  rest  within  you,  dear, 
As,  through  the  billowy  voices  yearning  here, 

Great  Nature  strives  to  find  a  human  speech. 

A  sonnet  is  a  wave  of  melody: 

From  heaving  waters  of  the  impassioned  soul 

A  billow  of  tidal  music  one  and  whole 
Flows  in  the  "octave";  then,  returning  free, 

Its  ebbing  surges  in  the  "sestet"  roll 
Back  to  the  deeps  of  Life's  tumultuous  sea. 

Theodore  Watts-Dunton  (1836-1914) 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS 

No  false  constraint  be  thine ! 
But,  for  right  walking,  choose 

The  fine, 

The  strict  cothurnus,  Muse. 
Alfred  Noyes:  "Art"  (from  the  French  of  Theophile  Gautier) 

THE  past  half-century  has  seen  established  in  English 
a  number  of  poetic  forms  even  more  rigid  than  tho  sonnet 
in  structural  requirements.  The  fact  that  most  of  these 
forms  were  zealously  cultivated  in  the  pre-classic  period 
of  French  literature  has  led  to  their  being  described  by 
the  term  "Old  French."  Although  poems  of  this  general 
type  had  been  composed  by  Chaucer,  who,  living  at 
the  court  of  Edward  III,  was  under  French  influence, 
it  was  not  until  1871  that  the  revival  of  interest  occurred. 
In  modern  English  the  most  celebrated  makers  of  these 
rigid  molds  of  thought  have  been  British — Andrew  Lang, 
Austin  Dobson,  and  William  Ernest  Henley.  Around 
New  York,  however,  worthy  examples  have  been  produced, 
notably  by  Brander  Matthews,  Henry  Cuyler  Bunner, 
Frank  Dempster  Sherman,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson, 
and — more  recently — Louis  Untermeyer.  As  a  result  of 
fifty  years  of  dissemination,  the  types  can  no  longer  be 
said  to  be  strictly  exotic.  Of  the  numerous  kinds  men- 

294 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  295 

tioned  in  more  detailed  studies,  the  ballade  and  the 
rondeau  are  undoubtedly  the  most  important,  their 
nearest  rivals  being  the  triolet  and  the  villanelle.  Others 
not  infrequently  met  with  are  the  rondel,  the  roundel,  the 
pantoum,  and  the  sestina.  Variants  of  these,  together 
with  still  other  forms,  are  discussed  and  exemplified  in 
Gleeson  White's  excellent  book,  Ballades  and  Rondeaus. 
The  ballade,  the  nearest  rival  to  the  sonnet  in  express- 
ing serious  thought  in  a  pleasing  stereotyped  mold,  can 
best  be  discussed  after  a  few  examples  have  been  read. 
Our  first  specimen  is  taken  from  Lang's  Ballades  in  Blue 
China,  a  volume  characterized  by  its  marked  finish  of 
workmanship  and  its  presupposition  of  culture  on  the 
part  of  the  reader.  The  "Ballade  to  Theocritus"  ex- 
presses the  power  of  poetry  to  enable  a  reader  to  tran- 
scend his  surroundings.  Sicily  was  a  seat  of  late  Greek 
wealth  and  culture.  Theocritus,  a  Sicilian  Greek  of  the 
third  century  B.  C.,  was  the  "father"  of  pastoral  poetry. 

BALLADE  TO  THEOCRITUS,  IN  WINTER 

Ah !  leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  roar 
Of  London,  and  the  bustling  street, 
For  still,  by  the  Sicilian  shore, 
The  murmur  of  the  Muse  is  sweet. 
Still,  still,  the  suns  of  summer  greet 
The  mountain-grave  of  Helike, 
And  shepherds  still  their  songs  repeat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

What  though  they  worship  Pan  no  more, 
That  guarded  once  the  shepherd's  seat, 
They  chatter  of  their  rustic  lore, 


296  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

They  watch  the  wind  among  the  wheat: 
Cicalas  chirp,  the  young  lambs  bleat, 
Where  whispers  pine  to  cypress  tree; 
They  count  the  waves  that  idly  beat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

Theocritus !  thou  canst  restore 
The  pleasant  years,  and  over-fleet; 
With  thee  we  live  as  men  of  yore, 
We  rest  where  running  waters  meet: 
And  then  we  turn  unwilling  feet 
And  seek  the  world — so  must  it  be — 
We  may  not  linger  in  the  heat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea ! 

Envoy 

Master, — when  rain,  and  snow,  and  sleet 
And  northern  winds  are  wild,  to  thce 
We  come,  we  rest  in  thy  retreat, 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea ! 

Andrew  Lang  (1844-1912) 

From  Ballades  in  Blue  China  is  taken  also  the  following 
superb  poem.  The  Southern  Cross  is  the  polar  constella- 
tion of  the  southern  hemisphere. 

BALLADE  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS 

Fair  islands  of  the  silver  fleece, 
Hoards  of  unsunned,  uncounted  gold, 
Whose  havens  are  the  haunts  of  Peace, 
Whose  boys  are  in  our  quarrel  bold ; 
Our  bolt  is  shot,  our  tale  is  told, 
Our  ship  of  state  in  storms  may  toss, 
But  ye  are  young  if  we  are  old, 
Ye  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross! 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  297 

Ay,  toe  may  dwindle  and  decrease, 
Such  fates  the  ruthless  years  unfold; 
And  yet  we  shall  not  wholly  cease, 
We  shall  not  perish  unconsoled; 
Nay,  still  shall  freedom  keep  her  hold 
Within  the  sea's  inviolate  fosse, 
And  boast  her  sons  of  English  mould, 
Ye  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross ! 

All  empires  tumble — Rome  and  Greece — 

Their  swords  are  rust,  their  altars  cold ! 

For  us,  the  Children  of  the  Seas, 

Who  ruled  where'er  the  waves  have  rolled. 

For  us,  in  Fortune's  book  enscrolled, 

I  read  no  runes  of  hopeless  loss; 

Nor — while  ye  last — our  knell  is  tolled, 

Ye  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross ! 

Envoy 

Britannia,  when  thy  hearth's  a-cold, 
When  o'er  thy  grave  has  grown  the  moss, 
Still  Rule  Australia  shall  be  trolled 
In  Islands  of  the  Southern  Cross ! 

Andrew  Lang  (1844-1912) 

The  poem  we  quote  below  holds  a  high  place  among 
tributes  to  the  heroes  of  old.  Although  Dobson  uses  the 
term  ballad,  ballade  should  be  used;  for  the  former  term 
has  been  preempted,  as  shown  in  Chapter  VI,  by  an  en- 
tirely different  type  of  poem. 

A  BALLAD  OF  HEROES 

Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not — 

Because,  in  some  remoter  day, 
Your  sacred  dust  from  doubtful  spot 


298  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Was  blown  of  ancient  airs  away, — 

Because  you  perished,  must  men  say 
Your  deeds  were  naught,  and  so  profane 

Your  lives  with  that  cold  burden?     Nay, 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 

Though,  it  may  be,  above  the  plot 

That  hid  your  once  imperial  clay, 
No  greener  than  o'er  men  forgot 

The  unregarding  grasses  sway; — 

Though  there  no  sweeter  is  the  lay 
From  careless  bird, — though  you  remain 

Without  distinction  of  decay, — 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 

No.     For  while  yet  in  tower  or  cot 

Your  story  stirs  the  pulses'  play; 
And  men  forget  the  sordid  lot — 

The  sordid  care,  of  cities  gray; — 

While  yet  beset  in  homelier  fray, 
They  learn  from  you  the  lesson  plain 

That  Life  may  go,  so  Honour  stay,— 
The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain! 

Envoy 

Heroes  of  old !     I  humbly  lay 

The  laurel  on  your  graves  again; 
Whatever  men  have  done,  men  may, — 

The  deeds  you  wrought  are  not  in  vain. 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-1921) 

"The  Prodigals"  not  only  exhibits  the  form,  but,  with  its 
consciously  archaic  background  and  diction,  reflects  the 
tone  of  the  typical  medieval  ballade. 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  299 

THE  PRODIGALS 

"Princes  ! — and  you,  most  valorous, 

Nobles  and  Barons  of  all  degrees ! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, — 

Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas ! 

Nothing  we  ask  or  of  gold  or  fees; 
Harry  us  not  with  the  hounds  we  pray; 

Lo, — for  the  surcote's  hem  we  seize, — 
Give  us — ah !  give  us — but  Yesterday !" 

'Dames  most  delicate,  amorous ! 

Damosels  blithe  as  the  belted  bees! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, — 

Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas ! 

Nothing  we  ask  of  the  things  that  please; 
Weary  are  we,  and  worn,  and  gray; 

Lo, — for  we  clutch  and  we  clasp  your  knees, — 
Give  us — ah!  give  us — but  Yesterday!" 

"Damosels — Dames,  be  piteous !" 

(But  the  dames  rode  fast  by  the  roadway  trees.) 
"Hear  us,  O  Knights  magnanimous !" 

(But  the  knights  pricked  on  in  their  panoplies.) 

Nothing  they  gat  or  of  hope  or  ease, 
But  only  to  beat  on  the  breast  and  say: — 

"Life  we  drank  to  the  dregs  and  lees; 
Give  us — ah!  give  us — but  Yesterday!" 

Envoy 

Youth,  take  heed  to  the  prayer  of  these ! 
Many  there  be  by  the  dusty  way, — 

Many  that  cry  to  the  rocks  and  seas 
"Give  us — ah !  give  us — but  Yesterday !" 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-1921) 


300  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

As  famous  as  any  ballade  in  English  is  Rossetti's 
structurally  irregular  "Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies,"  a  trans- 
lation from  the  French  of  the  vagabond  poet,  Fra^ois 
Villon  (14*31-1465?).  Lang's  translation  of  the  same 
poem,  though  more  literal  and  correct  structurally,  is  less 
well  known.  The  "ladies"  are  from  medieval  romance  and 
from  history,  the  most  famous,  perhaps,  being  Heloise, 
whom  Pope  celebrated  in  his  Epistle  from  Eloisa  to 
Abelard;  Bertha,  the  mother  of  Charlemagne;  and  Joan 
of  Arc. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora,  the  lovely  Roman? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thai's, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Ofi'ly*  "heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human?    ... 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 

For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 
Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 

(From  love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 

And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 
Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine?    .    .    . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  301 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde,  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?     .    .    . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Envoy 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 
Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  (1828-1882) 

From  an  examination  of  the  first  three  specimens 
quoted  above,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  ballade  consists  of 
three  eight-line  stanzas  followed  by  a  quatrain  termed  the 
envoi/.  The  last  line  of  each  of  the  four  divisions  is 
identical — a  refrain.  Distinguishing  this  line  by  C  the 
rime  scheme  may  be  described  by  the  formula  SababbcbC 
plus  bcbC.  Except  in  the  refrain  no  rime  word  in  a  ballade 
should  be  repeated.  The  rime  is  thus  difficult,  and  writers 
are  sorely  tempted  to  repeat  a  rime  or  line — as  is  done  in 
"The  Prodigals'* — or  to  use  more  than  three  rimes,  as  in 
"The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies.'*  Such  departures  are, 
however,  to  be  looked  at  askance.  Legitimate  departures 
are,  as  is  shown  below,  in  the  direction  of  greater  com- 
plication. Modern  English  ballades  normally  follow  the 
old  French  example  of  addressing,  in  the  first  line  of  the 
envoy,  a  patron,  or  other  person,  or  an  abstrac- 
tion. In  each  specimen  here  quoted  the  custom  is 


302  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

observed.  The  meter  of  the  common  type  of  bal- 
lade varies,  but  iambic  tetrameter  is  the  more  usual 
form.  Note,  however,  the  anapestic  movement  of  "The 
Prodigals." 

In  addition  to  the  normal  ballade  type,  there  are  sev- 
eral variants.  The  envoy  is  sometimes  omitted.  Dobson's 
"Ballad  of  Prose  and  Rhyme'*  has  the  metrical  scheme 
SabaBbcbC  plus  bBcC — that  is,  it  has  a  double  refrain. 
One  of  a  fairly  abundant  class  is  Swinburne's  "Ballad 
of  Fran9ois  Villon,'*  which  consists  of  three  ten-line 
stanzas  with  a  five-line  envoy,  the  whole  on  four  rimes, 
SababbccdcD  plus  ccdcD.  Theoretically,  this  type  of 
ballade  with  its  ten-line  stanzas  should  always  be  written 
in  pentameters  (ten  syllables)  just  as  the  ballade  with 
eight-line  stanzas  should  always  be  written  in  tetrameters 
(eight  syllables),  but  these  rules  are  not  strictly  adhered 
to.  The  double  ballade  consists  of  six  stanzas  in  three 
rimes,  but  usually  omits  the  envoy;  examples  are  Swin- 
burne's "Double  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel"  and  "Double 
Ballad  of  August."  Alfred  Noyes  has  written  "A  Triple 
Ballad  of  Old  Japan."  "King  Boreas"  by  Clinton 
Scollard  is  an  example  of  the  chant  royal — SababccddedE 
plus  ddedE — an  elaborate  form  of  the  ballade  type.  The 
best  effects  have,  however,  been  achieved  in  the  normal 
ballade  structure. 

Because  of  the  modern  revival  of  the  form,  Chaucer's 
"balades"  are  of  unusual  interest.  Several  consist  of 
rime-royal  stanzas  linked  by  refrain,  the  last  stanza  being 
often  called  the  envoy.  The  following,  however,  except 
for  the  missing  envoy,  comes  near  to  being  a  perfect 
ballade  according  to  the  modern  conventions. 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  303 

XII.     TO  ROSEMOUNDE.     A  BALADE 

Madame,  ye  ben  of  al  beaute  shryne 
As  fer  as  cercled  is  the  raappemounde; 
For  as  the  cristal  glorious  ye  shyne, 
And  lyke  ruby  ben  your  chekes  rounde. 
Therwith  ye  ben  so  mery  and  so  jocunde, 
That  at  a  revel  whan  that  I  see  you  daunce, 
It  is  an  oynement  unto  my  wounde, 
Thogh  ye  to  me  ne  do  no  daliaunce. 

For  thogh  I  wepe  of  teres  ful  a  tyne, 
Yet  may  that  wo  myn  herte  nat  confounde; 
Your  seemly  voys  that  ye  so  smal  outtwyne 
Maketh  my  thoght  in  joye  and  blis  habounde. 
So  curteisly  I  go,  with  love  bounde, 
That  to  my-self  I  sey,  in  my  penaunce, 
Suffyseth  me  to  love  you,  Rosemounde, 
Thogh  ye  to  me  ne  do  no  daliaunce. 

Nas  never  pyk  walwed  in  galauntyne 
As  I  in  love  am  walwed  and  y- wounde; 
For  which  full  ofte  I  of  my-self  divyne 
That  I  am  trewe  Tristam  the  secounde. 
My  love  may  not  refreyd  be  nor  afounde; 
I  brenne  ay  in  an  amorous  plesaunce. 
Do  what  you  list,  I  wil  your  thral  be  founde, 
Thogh  ye  to  me  ne  do  no  daliaunce. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  (1340?-1400) 

Among  the  stricter  forms,  the  rondeau  rivals  the 
ballade  in  dignity.  "In  Flanders  Fields,"  undoubtedly 
the  best  known  rondeau  in  the  language,  was  written  by 
a  Canadian  lieutenant-colonel  during  the  World  War.  It 
appeared  first  in  Punch. 


304  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 

That  mark  our  place ;  and  in  the  sky 

The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead.     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe; 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch ;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 

John  McCrae  (1872-1918) 

We  quote  another  superb  rondeau  by  a  British  colonial, 
Eliot  Napier  of  Australasia: 

ALL  MEN  ARE  FREE 

All  men  are  free  and  equal  born 
Before  the  Law!"     So  runs  the  worn 

And  specious,  lying,  parrot-cry. 

All  men  are  free — to  starve  or  sigh; 
But  few  to  feed  on  Egypt's  corn. 

There  toils  the  sweated  slave,  forlorn; 
There  weeps  the  babe  with  hunger  torn; 
Dear  God,  forgive  us  for  the  lie — 
"All  men  are  free!" 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  305 

That  man  may  laugh  while  this  must  mourn ; 
One's  heir  to  honour,  one  to  scorn — 

Were  they  born  free  ?    Were  you  ?    Was  I  ? 
No !    Not  when  born,  but  when  they  die 
And  of  their  robes — or  rags — are  shorn, 
All  men  are  free  ! 

Eliot  Napier 

Austin  Dobson  wrote  a  number  of  graceful  and  dignified 
rondeaus  which  did  much  to  popularize  the  form.  "In 
After  Days"  is  unsurpassed.  It  was  widely  quoted  after 
the  author's  death  in  1921. 


IN  AFTER  DAYS 

In  after  days  when  grasses  high 
O'er-top  the  stone  where  I  shall  lie, 
Though  ill  or  well  the  world  adjust 
My  slender  claim  to  honoured  dust, 
I  shall  not  question  nor  reply. 

I  shall  not  see  the  morning  sky ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  night- wind  sigh; 
I  shall  be  mute,  as  all  men  must 
In  after  days! 

But  yet,  now  living,  fain  were  I 
That  some  one  then  should  testify, 
Saying — He  held  his  pen  in  trust 
To  Art,  not  serving  shame  or  lust. 
Will  none?     Then  let  my  memory  die 
In  after  days ! 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-1921) 


306  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  process  of  rondeau-making  is  cleverly  stated  by 
Austin  Dobson  in  a  rondeau,  "You  Bid  Me  Try."  The 
rime  scheme  is  aabba  aabR  aabbaR,  R  indicating  the 
refrain  which  is  always  a  repetition  of  the  first  part  of 
the  first  line  of  the  poem,  and  is  usually  identical  with 
the  title.  In  modern  English  the  rondeau  is  a  rigid  type ; 
a  deviation  from  it  might  result  in  an  acceptable  poem, 
but  not  in  a  true  rondeau. 

The  rondeau  is,  like  the  ballade,  used  for  light  as  well  as 
for  serious  subjects  and  is  a  frequent  vehicle  for  vers  de 
societe.  In  Untermeyer's  "A  Burlesque  Rondo" — a  para- 
phrase from  Horace — the  refrain  remains  the  same  in 
sound  while  it  varies  in  meaning :  "Cum  tu,  Lydia,"  "Come 
to  Lydia,"  and  "Come  to !  Lydia."  Frank  D.  Sherman's 
"An  Acrostical  Valentine"  is  a  remarkable  tour  de  force. 
The  initial  letters  of  the  lines  (excluding  the  refrain)  spell 
the  name  of  the  author. 

Dobson  is  the  author  of  the  most  felicitous  rondels  in 
English.  We  quote  "The  Wanderer"  and  "Vitas  Hin- 
nuleo."  Note  that  there  are  but  two  rimes  and  that  the 
first  two  lines  of  the  poem  constitute  a  refrain,  half  of 
which  may  be  omitted  in  the  last  division  of  the  poem. 
The  two  rime  orders  shown  below  are  typical,  the  scheme 
ABab  baAB  ababAB  being  perhaps  most  common. 

THE  WANDERER 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling, — 
The  old,  old  love  that  we  knew  of  yore ! 
We  see  him  stand  by  the  open  door, 

With  his  great  eyes,  and  his  bosom  swelling. 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  307 

He  makes  as  though  in  our  arms  repelling 
He  fain  would  lie  as  he  lay  before; — 
Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling,— 

The  old,  old  love  that  we  knew  of  yore ! 

\h,  who  shall  help  us  from  over-spelling 
That  sweet  forgotten,  forbidden  lore! 
E'en  as  we  doubt  in  our  heart  once  more, 

With  a  rush  of  tears  to  our  eyelids  welling, 
Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling. 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-1921) 

The  odes  of  Horace  have  always  lured  the  English  poet- 
translator.  In  his  recent  engaging  volume,  Including 
Horace,  Louis  Untermeyer  has  two  paraphrases  of  "Vitas 
Hinnuleo" — an  ode  which  Dobson  made  into  a  perfect 
rondel. 

VITAS  HINNULEO 

You  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother 

Through  trackless  woods.     If  spring  winds  sigh, 
It  vainly  strives  its  fears  to  smother; — 

Its  trembling  knees  assail  each  other 
When   lizards   stir  the  bramble  dry; — 

You  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 

And  yet  no  Libyan  lion  I, — 

No  ravening  thing  to  rend  another; 
Lay  by  your  tears,  your  tremors  by — 

A  Husband's  better  than  a  brother; 


308  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Nor  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-1921) 

For  his  own  use,  Swinburne  invented  the  roundel,  a 
variant  on  the  rondeau.  In  a  hundred  examples,  A  Cen- 
tury of  Roundels,  he  employed  a  wide  variety  of  line- 
lengths  and  meters,  but  never  varied  from  the  number  of 
lines,  the  type  of  refrain,  and  the  rime-scheme  shown  in 
this  example.  "A  Baby's  Feet"  is  grouped  with  "A 
Baby's  Hands"  and  "A  Baby's  Eyes"  under  the  title 
"Etude  Realiste." 

A  BABY'S  FEET 

A  baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink, 
Might  tempt,  should  heaven  see  meet, 

An  angel's  lips  to  kiss,  we  think, 
A  baby's  feet. 

Like  rose-hued  sea-flowers  toward  the  heat 

They  stretch  and  spread  and  wink 
Their  ten  soft  buds  that  part  and  meet. 

No  flower-bells  that  expand  and  shrink 

Gleam  half  so  heavenly  sweet 
As  shine  on  life's  untrodden  brink 

A  baby's  feet. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  (1837-1909) 

The  most  airy  of  the  fixed  forms  is  the  triolet.  The 
name  refers  to  the  triple  recurrence  of  the  first  line.  The 
rime  and  refrain  scheme,  ABaAabAB,  is  always  adhered 
to,  but  the  meter  is  varied  in  different  examples.  A 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  309 

felicitous  effect  depends  on  the  naturalness  of  the  repe- 
tition, a  difficult  matter  in  so  short  a  poem.  We  quote 
from  "Rose-Leaves"  a  perfect  example  entitled 

A  KISS 

Rose  kissed  me  to-day. 

Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow? 
Let  it  be  as  it  may, 

Rose  kissed  me  to-day. 
But  the  pleasure  gives  way 

To  a  savour  of  sorrow; — 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day, — 

Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow? 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-1921) 

Of  nearly  equal  structural  perfection  is  Bunner's 
widely  quoted,  wistful  "A  Pitcher  of  Mignonette."  A 
variation  in  the  first  few  syllables  of  the  repeated  lines  is 
permissible. 

A  PITCHER  OF  MIGNONETTE 

A  pitcher  of  mignonette 

In  a  tenement's  highest  casement: 

Queer  sort  of  a  flower-pot — yet 

That  pitcher  of  mignonette 

Is  a  garden  in  heaven  set, 

To  the  little  sick  child  in  the  basement — 

The  pitcher  of  mignonette 

In  the  tenement's  highest  casement. 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner  (1855-1896) 

The  villanelle,  a  difficult  but  beautiful  form,  is,  as  may 
be  seen  by  a  scrutiny  of  the  two  following  specimens,  a 
poem  of  nineteen  lines  and  two  rimes.  The  first  line  of 


310  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

the  first  stanza  becomes  the  last  line  of  the  second  and 
fourth  stanzas.  The  third  line  of  the  first  stanza  becomes 
the  last  line  of  the  third  and  fifth  stanzas.  The  two  re- 
frains make  a  quatrain  of  the  last  stanza.  Since  they 
rime  together,  let  A  stand  for  the  first  and  A'  for  the 
second.  The  scheme  may  then  be  described  by  the  formula 
AbA'  abA  abA'  abA  abA'  abAA' '.  More  than  five  tercets 
are  occasionally  found.  The  meter  varies,  but  is  usually 
iambic.  The  second  villanelle  below  describes  the  form  of 
which  it  is  a  pleasing  example. 

WHEN  I  SAW  YOU  LAST,  ROSE 

When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose, 
You  were  only  so  high; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 

Like  a  bud  ere  it  blows, 

You  just  peeped  at  the  sky, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose ! 

Now  your  petals  unclose, 

Now  your  May-time  is  nigh; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 

And  a  life, — how  it  grows! 

You  were  scarcely  so  shy, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose! 

In  your  bosom  it  shows 

There's  a  guest  on  the  sly; 
(How  fast  the  time  goes !) 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  311 

Is  it  Cupid  ?    Who  knows  ! 
Yet  you  used  not  to  sigh, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 

Austin  Dobson  (1840-1921) 

VILLANELLE 

A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle. 

Sly,  musical,  a  jewel  in  rhyme, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

A  double-clappered  silver  bell 

That  must  be  made  to  clink  in  chime, 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle; 

And  if  you  wish  to  flute  a  spell, 

Or  ask  a  meeting  'neath  the  lime, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

You  must  not  ask  of  it  the  swell 

Of  organs  grandiose  and  sublime — 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle; 

And,  filled  with  sweetness,  as  a  shell 

Is  filled  with  sound,  and  launched  in  time, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

Still  fair  to  see  and  good  to  smell 

As  in  the  quaintness  of  its  prime, 
A  dainty  thing's  the  Villanelle, 
It  serves  its  purpose  passing  well. 

William  Ernest  Henley  (1849-1908) 

The  chief  characteristic  of  the  pantoum  is  the  repeti- 
tion of  each  line.    The  second  and  fourth  lines  of  a  stanza 


312  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

recur  respectively  as  the  first  and  third  of  the  following, 
the  endless  chain  being  usually  completed  by  a  return  to 
the  first  line  of  the  poem.  The  meter  varies,  and  there 
may  be  any  number  of  stanzas.  In  ultimate  origin,  the 
pantoum  is  not  French,  but  Malaysian.  Because  of  its 
structure,  its  field  is  very  limited.  It  is  normally  used 
for  a  monotonous  subject,  well-known  examples  being  "In 
Town"  by  Austin  Dobson,  and  "En  Route"  by  Brander 
Matthews.  "In  the  Sultan's  Garden"  is  colorful  and 
dramatic,  and  repeats  the  lines  in  a  natural  manner. 

IN  THE  SULTAN'S  GARDEN 

She  oped  the  portal  of  the  palace, 

She  stole  into  the  garden's  gloom; 
From  every  spotless  snowy  chalice 

The  lilies  breathed  a  sweet  perfume. 

She  stole  into  the  garden's  gloom, 

She  thought  that  no  one  would  discover; 

The  lilies  breathed  a  sweet  perfume, 
She  swiftly  ran  to  meet  her  lover. 

She  thought  that  no  one  would  discover, 

But  footsteps  followed  ever  near; 
She  swiftly  ran  to  meet  her  lover 

Beside  the  fountain  crystal  clear. 

But  footsteps  followed  ever  near; 

Ah,  who  is  that  she  sees  before  her 
Beside  the  fountain  crystal  clear? 

'Tis  not  her  hazel-eyed  adorer. 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  313 

Ah,  who  is  that  she  sees  before  her, 

His  hand  upon  his  scimitar? 
'Tis  not  her  hazel-eyed  adorer, 

It  is  her  lord  of  Candahar! 

His  hand  upon  his  scimitar, — 

Alas,  what  brought  such  dread  disaster! 

It  is  her  lord  of  Candahar, 

The  fierce  Sultan,  her  lord  and  master. 

Alas,  what  brought  such  dread  disaster! 
"Your  pretty  lover's  dead !"  he  cries — 
The  fierce  Sultan,  her  lord  and  master. 
"  'Neath  yonder  tree  his  body  lies." 

"Your  pretty  lover's  dead !"  he  cries — 

(A  sudden,  ringing  voice  behind  him) ; 
"  'Neath  yonder  tree  his  body  lies " 

"Die,  lying  dog !  go  thou  and  find  him !" 

A  sudden,  ringing  voice  behind  him, 

A  deadly  blow,  a  moan  of  hate, 
"Die,  lying  dog!  go  thou  and  find  him! 

Come,  love,  our  steeds  are  at  the  gate !" 

A  deadly  blow,  a  moan  of  hate, 

His  blood  ran  red  as  wine  in  chalice; 
"Come,  love,  our  steeds  are  at  the  gate !" 

She  oped  the  portal  of  the  palace. 

Clinton  Scollard  (1860-  ) 

Like  the  pantoum,  the  sestina  is  a  tour  de  force  of 
relatively  rare  occurrence  in  English.  Kipling's  "Sestina 
of  the  Tramp  Royal"  is  a  good  example.  More  delicately 
graceful  is  Edmund  Gosse's 


314  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

SESTINA 

TO  F.   H. 

In  fair  Provence,  the  land  of  lute  and  rose, 
Arnaut,  great  master  of  the  lore  of  love, 
First  wrought  sestines  to  win  his  lady's  heart; 
For  she  was  deaf  when  simpler  staves  he  sang, 
And  for  her  sake  he  broke  the  bonds  of  rhyme, 
And  in  this  subtler  measure  hid  his  woe. 

"Harsh  be  my  lines,"  cried  Arnaut,  "harsh  the  woe, 
My  lady,  that  enthron'd  and  cruel  rose, 
Inflicts  on  him  that  made  her  live  in  rhyme !" 
But  through  the  meter  spake  the  voice  of  Love, 
And  like  a  wild-wood  nightingale  he  sang 
Who  thought  in  crabbed  lays  to  ease  his  heart. 

It  is  not  told  if  her  untoward  heart 

Was  melted  by  her  poet's  lyric  woe, 

Or  if  in  vain  so  amorously  he  sang. 

Perchance  through  crowd  of  dark  conceits  he  rose 

To  nobler  heights  of  philosophic  love, 

And  crowned  his  later  years  with  sterner  rhyme. 

This  thing  alone  we  know:  the  triple  rhyme, 
Of  him  who  bared  his  vast  and  passionate  heart 
To  all  the  crossing  flames  of  hate  and  love, 
Wears  in  the  midst  of  all  its  storm  of  woe, — 
As  some  loud  morn  of  March  may  bear  a  rose,— 
The  impress  of  a  song  that  Arnaut  sang. 

"Smith  of  his  mother-tongue,"  the  Frenchman  sang 
Of  Lancelot  and  Galahad,  the  rhyme 
That  beat  so  bloodlike  at  its  core  of  rose, 
It  stirred  the  sweet  Francesca's  gentle  heart 


THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  315 

To  take  that  kiss  that  brought  her  so  much  woe, 
And  sealed  in  fire  her  martydrom  of  love. 

And  Dante,  full  of  her  immortal  love, 

Stayed  his  drear  song,  and  softly,  fondly  sang 

As  though  his  voice  broke  with  that  weight  of  woe ; 

And  to  this  day  we  think  of  Arnaut's  rhyme 

Whenever  pity  at  the  labouring  heart 

On  fair  Francesca's  memory  drops  the  rose. 

Ah!  sovereign  Love,  forgive  this  weaker  rhyme! 
The  men  of  old  who  sang  were  great  at  heart, 
Yet  have  we  too  known  woe,  and  worn  thy  rose. 

Edmund  Gosse  (1849-  ) 

From  reading  the  above  poem  it  will  be  seen  that  not 
rime  but  repetition  of  end  words  characterizes  the  sestina. 
The  end-words  of  the  first  line  are  repeated  in  an  order 
which  will  permit  the  last  end-word  of  each  stanza  to  be 
the  first  end-word  of  the  next,  the  sequence  being  123456, 
615243,  364125,  532614,  451362,  246531.  The  three-line 
envoy  has  three  of  the  terminal-words  at  the  ends,  the 
others  earlier  in  the  lines.  The  end-words  sometimes  rime, 
and  the  arrangement  here  outlined  is  not  always  followed. 
This  exotic  form  vies  with  the  chant  royal  in  difficulty  of 
structure.  In  theory,  the  end-words  should  be  important 
nouns,  which  are  turned  and  re-turned  in  the  dreaming 
mind  of  the  poet.  The  use  of  the  verb  rose  for  the  noun 
in  the  third  stanza  should  thus  be  regarded  as  a  flaw  in 
a  careful  piece  of  workmanship. 

In  conclusion,  mention  by  name  should  be  made  of  a 
few  other  structural  types.  Kynelle  is  a  term  sometimes 
applied  to  a  series  of  quatrains  linked  by  a  common 


316  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

fourth  line.  In  chum  verse  the  last  line  of  one  stanza 
becomes  the  first  line  of  the  next;  more  rarely,  the  last 
word  of  one  stanza  becomes  the  first  word  of  the  next.  The 
rondeau  redouble,  glose,  lay,  virelai,  Sicilian  octave,  and 
other  rare  forms  deserve  no  place  in  an  anthology  of 
limited  scope.  The  bibliography  contains  suggestions  for 
further  study. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  foreign  languages  are  still 
being  exploited  for  structural  forms  suitable  for  adapta- 
tion in  English.  It  is  quite  possible,  for  instance,  that 
Witter  Bynner,  Amy  Lowell,  or  some  other  modern  poet 
may  find  in  Japanese  or  Chinese  poetry  a  form  worthy 
of  permanent  cultivation  in  English.  Experiments  and 
innovations  have  been  numerous  of  late.  The  extrava- 
gant restraint  of  the  artificial  forms  and  the  unrestraint 
of  free  verse  are  the  extreme  right  and  the  extreme  left 
in  the  poetry  of  today. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LIGHT  VERSE 

I  would  be  the  Lyric 
Ever  on  the  lip, 
Rather  than  the  Epic 
Memory  lets  slip. 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich:  "Lyrics  and  Epics" 

IN  "The  Day  is  Done"  which  was  prefixed  to  The  Waif, 
a  collection  of  poems  by  minor  poets,  Longfellow  elo- 
quently defended  the  humbler  poets,  whom  we  sometimes 
choose  to  read  rather  than  "the  grand  old  masters," 

the  bards  sublime 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

Indeed,  there  is  more  than  one  kind  of  poetry  in  which 
the  lesser  poets,  like  Longfellow  and  Aldrich,  are  the 
masters.  This,  as  we  have  seen,  is  true  of  patriotic  songs 
and  the  French  forms ;  and  it  is  equally  true  of  light 
verse.  The  great  poet,  Wordsworth  or  Milton  for  in- 
stance, is  generally  too  deeply  in  earnest,  too  passionate, 
sometimes  too  unsocial  to  write  what  must  seem  to  him 
mere  literary  small  talk.  In  fact,  the  major  poets  who 
have  tried  to  trip  it  on  the  light  fantastic  toe  have  nearly 

317 


318  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

always  failed.  In  spite  of  an  apparent  ease,  "the  familiar 
[style]  is,"  as  Cowper  pointed  out,  "of  all  styles  the 
most  difficult  to  succeed  in."  Only  the  poet  who  is  also 
a  man  of  the  world  like  Holmes  or  Thackeray  can  produce 
these  "immortal  ephemerae." 

The  most  important  form  of  lighter  poetry  is  that 
usually  called  vers  de  societe.  Since  an  example  is  often 
more  enlightening  than  a  definition,  let  us  first  examine 
a  fairly  typical  poem  of  this  kind.  Bret  Harte,  although 
most  people  remember  him  only  for  his  stories,  was  also 
a  poet  of  considerable  importance.  In  "Her  Letter"  the 
daughter  of  a  gold  miner  who  has  "struck  it  rich"  is 
writing  from  New  York  to  her  sweetheart  in  California. 

HER  LETTER 

I'm  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire, — 

It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France; 
I'm  be-diamonded  out  of  all  reason, 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  queue: 
In  short,  sir,  "the  belle  of  the  season" 

Is  wasting  an  hour  upon  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I've  broken; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set; 
Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits — on  the  stairs — for  me  yet. 
They  say  he'll  be  rich, — when  he  grows  up, — 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed. 
And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 

Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 


LIGHT  VERSE  319 

"And  how  do  I  like  my  position?" 

"And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York?" 
"And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk?" 
"And  isn't  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds  and  silks,  and  all  that?" 
"And  aren't  they  a  change  to  the  ditches 

And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat?" 

Well,  yes, — if  you  saw  us  out  driving 

Each  day  in  the  park,  four-in-hand, — 
If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 

To  look  supernaturally  grand, — 
If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 

By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that, — 
You'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 

And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 

In  .the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier, — 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 

The  "finest  soiree  of  the  year," — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gauze  de  Chambery, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk, — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  "Ferry," 

And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "The  Fork"; 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster 

Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall; 
Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 

And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl; 
Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fiddle; 

Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-a-vis; 
And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 

With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  McGee; 


320  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 

On  the  hill  when  the  time  came  to  go; 
Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 

From  under  their  bed-clothes  of  snow; 
Of  that  ride, — that  to  me  was  the  rarest; 

Of — the  something  you  said  at  the  gate. 
Ah,  Joe,  then  I  wasn't  an  heiress 

To  "the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State." 

Well,  well,  it's  all  past ;  yet  it's  funny 

To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water, 

And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that, 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's  daughter, 

The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness !  what  nonsense  I'm  writing ! 

(Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low,) 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I'm  spooning  on  Joseph, — heigh-ho! 
And  I'm  to  be  "finished"  by  travel, — 

Whatever's  the  meaning  of  that, — 
Oh !  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 

In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat? 

Good  night, — here's  the  end  of  my  paper; 

Good  night, — if  the  longitude  please, — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 

Your  sun's  climbing  over  the  trees. 
But  know,  if  you  haven't  got  riches, 

And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches, 

And  you've  struck  it, — on  Poverty  Flat. 

Francis  Bret  Harte  (1836-1902') 


LIGHT  VERSE  321 

Clearly  this  is  not  the  poetry  of  passionate  love ;  it  is 
not  the  language  of  Burns's  "Highland  Mary"  or  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.  Nor  is  it 
the  poetry  of  great  thought  or  of  lofty  enthusiasm. 
Vers  de  societe  is  to  greater  poetry  what  the  miniature 
and  the  cameo  are  to  the  paintings  of  Raphael  and  the 
statues  of  Michael  Angelo.  One  should  not,  however, 
make  the  mistake  of  regarding  such  poems  as  mere  trifles. 
Vers  de  societe,  like  the  French  forms,  is  one  of  the  lesser 
divisions  of  poetry,  but  no  lover  of  poetry  should  consider 
his  taste  wholly  catholic  until  he  can  admire  all  kinds, 
small  as  well  as  great. 

Although  all  the  names  which  have  been  suggested  for 
what  the  French  call  vers  de  societe  are  unsatisfactory, 
it  is  worth  while  to  mention  some  of  them  because  each 
throws  light  on  the  nature  of  the  type.  The  French 
phrase,  for  which  society  verse  and  social  verse  are  in- 
adequate translations,  is  doubly  objectionable  because  it 
is  foreign  and  because  it  leads  one  to  draw  the  mistaken 
inference  that  French  poetry  is  richer  than  English  in 
poetry  of  this  type.  Lyra  Elegantiarum,  which  Locker- 
Lampson  used  as  the  title  of  his  famous  anthology  of 
English  vers  de  societe,  is  open  to  similar  objections. 
Familiar  verse,  which  Brander  Matthews  borrowed  from 
Cowper  for  his  excellent  anthology,  American  Familiar 
Verse,  is  the  least  inadequate  English  name,  but  it  too 
strongly  suggests  informality.  Gentle  verse,  suggested 
by  Carolyn  Wells,  and  patrician  rhymes,  suggested  by 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  emphasize  the  fact  that  vers 
de  societe  is  essentially  the  poetry  of  the  salon,  of  well- 
bred  society.  Occasional  verse  is  the  least  satisfactory 


322  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

term  of  all,  for  poems  written  for  special  occasions  are 
as  varied  in  type  as  Lowell's  "Under  the  Old  Elm,"  an 
ode;  Emerson's  "Concord  Hymn,"  a  song;  and  Milton's 
Comus,  a  masque.  Partly  because  other  names  are 
unsatisfactory  and  partly  because  we  wish  to  include  in 
this  chapter  poems  not  strictly  to  be  classed  as  vers  de 
societe,  we  have  called  this  chapter  Light  Verse. 

There  is  little  agreement  among  authorities  as  to  the 
limitations  in  form  and  subject  matter  of  vers  de  societe. 
The  poem  may  be  cast  in  the  form  of  a  letter,  a  song,  a 
toast,  an  epitaph,  a  ballade,  an  autograph.  The  subject 
matter  is  generally  social  in  nature.  The  poet  writes 
most  often  perhaps  of  love  in  its  lighter  moods ;  but  the 
theater,  books,  friends,  children,  animals,  and  many  other 
subjects  are  also  open  to  him.  The  true  criterion,  it 
seems  evident,  is  neither  form  nor  subject  but  style. 
Frederick  Locker-Lampson,  in  the  preface  to  his  Lyra 
Elegantiarum,  has  admirably  characterized  the  style  of 
vers  de  societe.  Poems  of  this  type,  says  he,  "should  be 
short,  elegant,  refined,  and  fanciful,  not  seldom  distin- 
guished by  chastened  sentiment,  and  often  playful.  The 
tone  should  not  be  pitched  high ;  it  should  be  idiomatic, 
and  rather  in  the  conversational  key;  the  rhythm  should 
be  crisp  and  sparkling,  and  the  rhyme  frequent  and  never 
forced,  while  the  entire  poem  should  be  marked  by  tasteful 
moderation,  high  finish,  and  completeness  .  .  .  the  two 
qualities  of  brevity  and  buoyancy  are  absolutely  essential. 
The  poem  may  be  tinctured  with  a  well-bred  philosophy, 
it  may  be  gay  and  gallant,  it  may  be  playfully  malicious 
or  tenderly  ironical,  it  may  display  lively  banter,  and  it 
may  be  sarcastically  facetious  .  .  .  but  it  must  never  be 


LIGHT  VERSE  323 

ponderous  or  commonplace."  "In  fine,"  as  Stedman  sums 
up  the  matter,  "the  true  kind  is  marked  by  humor,  by 
spontaneity,  joined  with  extreme  elegance  of  finish,  by 
the  quality  we  call  breeding, — above  all,  by  lightness  of 
touch."  To  these  definitions  we  may  add  the  Twelve  Good 
Rules  drawn  up  by  Austin  Dobson,  the  greatest  recent 
writer  of  light  verse: — "1.  Never  be  vulgar.  2.  Avoid 
slang  and  puns.  3.  Avoid  inversions.  4.  Be  sparing  of 
long  words.  5.  Be  colloquial  but  not  commonplace.  6. 
Choose  the  lightest  and  brightest  of  measures.  7.  Let  the 
rimes  be  frequent  but  not  forced.  8.  Let  them  be  rigor- 
ously exact  to  the  ear.  9.  Be  as  witty  as  you  like.  10. 
Be  serious  by  accident.  11.  Be  pathetic  with  the  greatest 
discretion.  12.  Never  ask  if  the  writer  of  these  rules  has 
observed  them  himself." 

One  of  the  later  New  England  poets,  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich,  at  one  time  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  wrote 
much  graceful  verse  in  lighter  vein.  The  following  poem, 
in  form  a  dramatic  monologue  in  which  a  lover  is  bidding 
his  sweetheart  goodnight,  treats  love  in  a  mood  similar  to 
that  of  "Her  Letter."  The  Spanish  title  means  "endear- 
ing words." 

PALABRAS  CARINOSAS 

Good-night !     I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good-night  unto  the  slender  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings; 
Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 


324  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  good-night  again ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  farewells.    Till  then,  good-night! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands !  ah,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  good-night  again ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  (1836-1907) 

Vers  de  societe  often  handles  the  theme  of  love  in  a 
satiric,  half-cynical  fashion.  The  Irish  poet,  Tom  Moore, 
has  struck  this  note  in  one  of  his  songs,  from  which  we 
quote  the  first  stanza: 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 
Tho'  wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorn'd  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they  taught  me. 

The  most  famous  poem  of  this  kind  is  Robert  Herrick't* 
"To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time."  Aldrich  called 
Herrick  "a  great  little  poet," — a  term  which  might  well 


LIGHT  VERSE  325 

be  applied  to  himself.  Herrick,  who  in  his  youth  was  ap- 
prenticed to  a  goldsmith,  loved  to  polish  his  miniature 
poems  as  a  jeweler  might  delight  in  carving  a  cameo. 

TO  THE  VIRGINS,  TO  MAKE  MUCH  OF  TIME 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry; 
For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  forever  tarry. 

Robert  Herrick  (1591-1674") 

The  disillusioned,  satirical  attitude  toward  youthful 
love  is  nothing  new.  It  is  as  old  as  the  Roman  poet 
Horace  and  as  recent  as  yesterday's  Life  and  Punch. 
The  poems  of  the  great  Augustan  have  tempted  many 
imitators  and  translators,  Milton  and  Pope  among  many 
others.  More  recent  poets,  however,  have  better  ren- 
dered the  light,  graceful  banter  of  Horace's  verse.  In  the  £s> 


326  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

following  poem  Eugene  Field,  whose  translations  from 
Horace  are  among  the  best,  protests  against  the  tradi- 
tional class-room  attitude  toward  Horace.  Field  was 
one  of  the  earliest  modern  American  newspaper  poets. 
With  few  exceptions,  the  best  American  light  verse  of  the 
last  decade  has  been  written  by  later  newspaper  "colyum- 
ists"  like  Franklin  P.  Adams,  Christopher  Morley,  Don 
Marquis,  and  Bert  Leston  Taylor. 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  HORACE 

It  is  very  aggravating 

To  hear  the  solemn  prating 

Of  the  fossils  who  are  stating 

That  old  Horace  was  a  prude; 
When  we  know  that  with  the  ladies 
He  was  always  raising  Hades, 
And  with  many  an  escapade  his 

Best  productions  are  imbued. 

There's  really  not  much  harm  in  a 
Large  number  of  his  carmina, 
But  these  people  find  alarm  in  a 

Few  records  of  his  acts ; 
So  they'd  squelch  the  muse  caloric, 
And  to  students  sophomoric 
They'd  present  as  metaphoric 

What  old  Horace  meant  for  facts. 

We  have  always  thought  'em  lazy; 
Now  we  adjudge  'em  crazy! 
Why,  Horace  was  a  daisy 

That  was  very  much  alive ! 
And  the  wisest  of  us  know  him 
As  his  Lydia  verses  show  him, — 


LIGHT  VERSE  327 

Go,  read  that  virile  poem, — 
It  is  No.  25. 

He  was  a  very  owl,  sir, 

And  starting  out  to  prowl,  sir, 

You  bet  he  made  Rome  howl,  sir, 

Until  he  filled  his  date; 
With  a  massic-laden  ditty 
And  a  classic  maiden  pretty, 
He  painted  up  the  city, 

And  Maecenas  paid  the  freight ! 

Eugene  Field  (1850-1895') 

Louis  Uncermeyer,  whose  lighter  verse  is  equaled  by 
that  of  no  other  living  American  poet,  has  admirably 
translated  many  of  Horace's  famous  odes  in  his  Includ- 
ing Horace.  Those  familiar  with  the  love  affairs  of 
college  athletes  will  perhaps  be  surprised  to  find  how 
much  old  Horace  knew  of  human  nature,  which  changes 
little  from  generation  to  generation. 

QUESTIONING  LYDIA 

Lydia,  die,  per  omnis.  .  .  .  Book  I:  Ode  8 

Lydia,  why  do  you  ruin  by  lavishing 

Smiles  upon  Sybaris,  filling  his  eye 
Only  with  love,  and  the  skilfully  ravishing 

Lydia.     Why? 

Ringing  his  voice  was;  above  all  the  clamorous 
Throng  in  the  play-ground  his  own  would  be  high. 

Now  it  is  changed ;  he  is  softened  and  amorous. 
Lydia,  why? 


328  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Once  he  was  blithe  and,  as  swift  as  a  linnet,  he 
Wrestled  and  swam,  or  on  horse-back  flew  by. 

Now  he  is  dulled  with  this  cursed  femininity — 
Lydia,  why  ? 

Yes,  he  is  changed — he  is  moody  and  servile,  he 
Skulks  like  a  coward  and  wishes  to  fly. 

What,  can  you  smile  at  his  acting  so  scurvily, 
Lydia?  .  .  .  Why? 

Louis  Untermeyer  (1885-  ) 

The  great  American  master  of  light  verse  is  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes.  No  other  American  poet  has  quite 
equaled  him  in  ease,  polish,  and  wit.  His  "Contentment," 
"Dorothy  Q,"  "My  Aunt,"  and  "The  Deacon's  Master- 
piece" are  all  superb,  but  by  common  consent  "The  Last 
Leaf"  is  placed  slightly  above  them.  "The  Last  Leaf" 
was  a  favorite  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  who  spoke  of  the 
fourth  stanza  as  "inexpressibly  touching."  "For  pure 
pathos,  in  my  judgment,"  he  said,  "there  is  nothing  finer 
than  those  six  lines  in  the  English  language !"  Indeed, 
the  only  fault  one  can  find  with  them  is  that  they  are 
almost  too  full  of  feeling  for  vers  de  societe. 

THE  LAST  LEAF 

I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 


LIGHT  VERSE  329 

They  say  that  in  his  prime 

Ere   the   pruning-knife   of   Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmama  has  said, — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,— 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 


330  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 

For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, — 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (1809-1894} 

Locker-Lampson,  who  half  a  century  ago  spoke  of 
Holmes  as  "perhaps  the  best  living  writer  of  this  species  of 
verse,"  paid  him  the  further  compliment  of  borrowing  the 
very  unusual  metrical  form  which  Holmes  had  used  in 
"The  Last  Leaf."  By  his  use  of  the  stanza  Holmes  con- 
trived to  suggest  the  tapping  of  an  old  man's  cane,  while 
Locker-Lampson  tried  to  suggest  the  light  patter  of  a 
lady's  little  feet. 

MY  MISTRESS'S  BOOTS 

J«D.«. 

They  nearly  strike  me  dumb, 
And  I  tremble  when  they  come 

Pit-a-pat : 

This  palpitation  means 
That  these  Boots  are  Geraldine's — 

Think  of  that ! 

Oh  where  did  hunter  win 
So  delectable  a  skin 
For  her  feet? 


LIGHT  VERSE  331 

You  lucky  little  kid, 
You  perish'd,  so  you  did, 
For  my  sweet! 

The  faery  stitching  gleams 
On  the  sides,  and  in  the  seams, 

And  it  shows 

That  the  Pixies  were  the  wags 
Who  tipt  these  funny  tags, 

And  these  toes. 

The  simpletons  who  squeeze 
Their  extremities  to  please 

Mandarins, 

Would  positively  flinch 
From  venturing  to  pinch 

Geraldine's. 

What  soles  to  charm  an  elf ! 
Had  Crusoe,  sick  of  self, 

Chanced  to  view 
One  printed  near  the  tide, 
Oh  how  hard  he  would  have  tried 

For  the  two ! 

For  Gerry's  debonair, 
And  innocent  and  fair 

As  a  rose: 

She's  an  angel  in  a  frock, 
With  a  fascinating  cock 

To  her  nose. 

Cinderella's  lefts  and  rights 
To  Geraldine's  were  frights; 
And,  I  trow, 


332  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  damsel,  deftly  shod, 
Has  dutifully  trod 
Until  now. 


Come,  Gerry,  since  it  suits 
Such  a  pretty  Puss  (in  Boots) 

These  to  don, 

Set  this  dainty  hand  awhile, 
On  my  shoulder,  dear,  and  I'll 

Put  them  on. 
Frederick  Locker-Lampson  (1821-1895) 

Few  women  have  excelled  in  writing  vers  de  societe,  for 
what  reason  we  cannot  guess  unless  it  is  that  few  of  them 
have  tried.  There  are  many  things,  however,  which  a 
woman  can  treat  better  than  a  man.  No  man,  for  in- 
stance, could  possibly  have  written  the  poem  which  we 
quote  from  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  (Mrs.  Lionel 
Marks),  a  contemporary  American  poet  and  dramatist. 
No  other  poem  expresses  so  well  the  feminine  attitude 
toward  dress. 

"VANITY,  SAITH  THE  PREACHER" 

I  love  my  little  gowns; 

I  love  my  little  shoes, 

All  standing  still  below  them, 

Set  quietly  by  twos. 

All  day  I  wear  them  careless, 
But  when  I  put  them  by 
They  look  so  dear  and  different, 
And  yet  I  don't  know  why. 


LIGHT  VERSE  333 

My  oldest  one  of  all, — 
Worn  out;  and  then  the  best; 
But  that  I  have  not  worn  enough 
To  love  it,  like  the  rest. 

The  dimity  for  Sunday, 
The  blue  one  and  the  wool, 
Now  that  I  see  them  hanging  up, 
Are  somehow  beautiful. 

Of  all  the  white,  with  ribbons 
Gray-green,  if  I  could  choose; 
The  fichu  that  helps  everything 
Be  gay;  and  then,  my  shoes. 

My  shoes  that  skip  and  saunter, 
And  one  that  will  untie: — 
They  look  so  funny  and  so  young, 
I  hate  to  put  them  by. 

I  wonder, — if  some  day.  .  .  . 

All  this  will  be  the  Past? — 

Poor  Hop-the-brook  and  Dance-with-me, 

They  cannot  always  last! 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  (1874~  ) 

During  the  last  century  and  a  half  many  poems  have 
been  written  for  children.  The  great  majority  of  these 
do  not  come  under  the  head  of  light  verse,  but  much  ex- 
cellent light  verse  has  been  written  about  children.  The 
first  of  the  two  poems  which  we  quote  was  written  by 
Matthew  Prior,  probably  the  best  eighteenth  century 
writer  of  light  verse.  The  only  defect  in  the  poem  is  the 
unnatural  poetic  diction  which  Prior  and  his  contem- 
poraries could  seldom  escape. 


334  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

TO  A  CHILD  OF  QUALITY  FIVE  YEARS  OLD 

Lords,  knights,  and  'squires,  the  numerous  band, 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 

Were  summoned  by  her  high  command, 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took, 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed. 

Nor  quality,  nor  reputation 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell, 
Dear  five-years-old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silk-worms  beds 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear; 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads, 
In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair; 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame, 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame. 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 

Then  too,  alas !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends; 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  it!) 

That  I  shall  be  past  making  love, 
When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 

Matthew  Prior  (1664-1721") 


LIGHT  VERSE  335 

Best  known  for  his  short  stories,  Henry  Cuyler  Bunner, 
long  editor  of  Puck,  was  also  of  considerable  importance 
in  the  history  of  vers  de  societe  and  French  forms.  The 
following  poem  is  one  of  the  most  charming  light  poems 
ever  written  about  a  child.  All  the  stanzas  are  linked 
by  a  common  rime  scheme. 

"ONE,  TWO,  THREE" 

It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  who  was  half  past  three; 

And  the  way  that  they  played  together 
Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  couldn't  go  running  and  jumping, 

And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he, 
For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow, 

With  a  thin,  little,  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  under  the  maple-tree; 
And  the  game  that  they  played  I'll  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  was  Hide-and-Go-Seek  they  were  playing, 
Though  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  be — 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 

The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 
On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee, 

And  he'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 
In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three! 


336  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"You  are  in  the  china-closet!" 

He  would  cry,  and  laugh  with  glee — 

It  wasn't  the  china-closet; 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 

"You  are  up  in  Papa's  big  bedroom, 
In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key !" 

And  she  said:  "You  are  warm  and  warmer; 
But  you're  not  quite  right/'  said  she. 

"It  can't  be  the  little  cupboard 

Where  Mamma's  things  used  to  be — 

So  it  must  be  the  clothes-press,  Gran'ma !" 
And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers, 
That  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee, 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 
With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places, 

Right  under  the  maple-tree — 
This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  with  the  lame  little  knee — 
This  dear,  dear,  dear  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner  (1855-1896} 

Vers  de  societe  sometimes  takes  the  form  of  a  toast.  Lord 
Byron,  though  he  did  not  write  much  light  verse,  was  the 
author  of  one  of  the  best  toasts  in  the  language.  The 
following  poem  was  addressed  to  his  friend,  Thomas 
Moore,  when  Byron  was  leaving  England  for  the  last  time. 


LIGHT  VERSE  337 

TO  THOMAS  MOORE 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 
George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  Byron   (1788-1824) 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney,  a  gifted  young  Maryland  poet 
who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  wrote  what  is  prob- 
ably the  best  of  all  toasts  to  a  woman.  Although  the 
poem  has  several  inferior  lines,  it  is  not  unworthy  of  a 
place  beside  the  Cavalier  lyrics  of  Lovelace  and  Herrick. 
The  sentimental  extravagance  of  the  poet's  language 


338  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

recalls  the  grandiloquent  strain  in  which  the  old-fashioned 
Southern  gentleman  paid  his  compliments  to  "the  fair 
sex." 

A  HEALTH 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain; 


LIGHT  VERSE  339 

But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness   alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney  (1802-1828} 

Vers  de  societe  and  other  forms  of  light  verse  have 
flourished  best  in  prosaic  periods  like  the  first  half  of  the 
eighteenth  and  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  centuries ; 
the  younger  poets  of  today  seldom  attempt  it.  Pope, 
Gay,  Prior,  Swift,  Cowper,  and  Goldsmith,  all  eighteenth 
century  poets,  excelled  in  light  verse.  Of  the  major 
Romantic  poets,  only  Byron  and  Coleridge  wrote  light 
verse  of  importance ;  but  Walter  Savage  Landor,  a  minor 
poet  of  this  period,  is  represented  by  more  poems  in 
Locker-Lampson's  anthology  than  any  other  poet.  In 
the  Victorian  age  Locker-Lampson,  Thackeray,  Praed, 
and  Hood  all  wrote  brilliant  light  verse.  Among  more 
recent  English  poets  we  must  mention  two  poets  no  longer 
living,  Andrew  Lang  and  Austin  Dobson.  Besides  the 
American  poets  already  quoted, — Harte,  Holmes,  Aldrich, 
Field,  Untermeyer,  and  Bunner, — mention  must  be  made 
of  Lowell,  Saxe,  and  Stedman. 

Nonsense  verse  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  varieties 


340  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

of  light  verse  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  lacks  the  thought 
content  of  serious  poetry.  Like  vers  de  societe,  it  is 
difficult  to  write;  for  it  takes  a  man  of  sense  to  write 
readable  nonsense.  The  best  known  English  writers  of 
nonsense  verse,  all  belonging  to  the  nineteenth  century, 
are  Thomas  Hood,  Edward  Lear,  and  Lewis  Carroll 
(Charles  L.  Dodgson).  Gelett  Burgess  and  Oliver  Her- 
ford  are  perhaps  the  most  successful  American  authors  of 
nonsense  verse. 

THE  PURPLE  COW 

I  never  saw  a  Purple  Cow, 

I  never  hope  to  see  one ; 
But  I  can  tell  you,  anyhow, 

I'd  rather  see  than  be  one. 

Gelett  Burgess  (1866-  ) 

Nonsense  verse  has  a  logical  consistency  of  its  own ;  it 
must  not  be  a  wild,  incoherent  mixture  of  absurdities. 
The  Pobble,  in  the  following  poem  by  Edward  Lear,  is  a 
wholly  imaginary  creature;  but  both  the  Pobble  and  his 
Aunt  Jobiska  act  very  like  boys  and  aunts  whom  all  of 
us  know. 

THE  POBBLE  WHO  HAS  NO  TOES 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 

Had  once  as  many  as  we; 
When  they  said,  "Some  day  you  may  lose  them  all," 

He  replied,  "Fish  fiddle  de-dee !" 
And  his  Aunt  Jobiska  made  him  drink 
Lavender  water  tinged  with  pink; 


LIGHT  VERSE  341 

For  she  said,  "The  World  in  general  knows 
There's  nothing  so  good  for  a  Pobble's  toes !" 

The   Pobble  who   has  no  toes 

Swam  across  the  Bristol  Channel; 
But  before  he  set  out  he  wrapped  his  nose 

In  a  piece  of  scarlet  flannel. 
For  his  Aunt  Jobiska  said,  "No  harm 
Can  come  to  his  toes  if  his  nose  is  warm; 
And  it's  perfectly  known  that  a  Pobble's  toes 
Are  safe — provided  he  minds  his  nose." 

The  Pobble  swam  fast  and  well, 

And  when  boats  or  ships  came  near  him, 
He  tinkledy-binkledy-winkled  a  bell 

So  that  all  the  world  could  hear  him. 
And  all  the  Sailors  and  Admirals  cried, 
When  they  saw  him  nearing  the  farther  side, 
"He  has  gone  to  fish  for  his  Aunt  Jobiska's 
Runcible  Cat  with  crimson  whiskers !" 

But  before  he  touched  the  shore — 

The  shore  of  the  Bristol  Channel, 
A  sea-green  Porpoise  carried  away 

His  wrapper  of  scarlet  flannel. 
And  when  he  came  to  observe  his  feet, 
Formerly  garnished  with  toes  so  neat, 
His  face  at  once  became  forlorn 
On  perceiving  that  all  his  toes  were  gone ! 

And  nobody  ever  knew, 

From  that  dark  day  to  the  present, 
Whoso  had  taken  the  Pobble's  toes, 

In  a  manner  so  far  from  pleasant. 
Whether  the  shrimps  or  crawfish  gray, 
Or  crafty  mermaids  stole  them  away, 


342  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Nobody  knew;  and  nobody  knows 

How  the  Pobble  was  robbed  of  his  twice  five  toes ! 


The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes 

Was  placed  in  a  friendly  Bark, 
And  they  rowed  him  back  and  carried  him  up 

To  his  Aunt  Jobiska's  Park. 
And  she  made  him  a  feast  at  his  earnest  wish, 
Of  eggs  and  buttercups  fried  with  fish; 
And  she  said,  "It's  a  fact  the  whole  world  knows, 
That  Pobbles  are  happier  without  their  toes." 

Edward  Lear  (1812-1888} 

Thomas  Hood,  one  of  the  best  of  English  humorous 
poets,  is  now  remembered  chiefly  for  his  serious  poem, 
"The  Bridge  of  Sighs."  Like  Shakespeare,  Hood  was  too 
fond  of  that  questionable  form  of  humor,  the  pun ;  but  if 
puns  are  at  all  allowable,  Hood  has  the  distinction  of 
being  the  cleverest  punster  who  ever  wrote  in  verse.  The 
following  poem  is  a  burlesque  of  sentimental  and  martial 
ballads  as  well  as  an  excellent  specimen  of  humorous 
verse. 

FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY 
A  Pathetic  Ballad 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war's  alarms; 
But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 

So  he  laid  down  his  arms ! 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "Let  others  shoot, 


LIGHT  VERSE  343 

For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg, 
And  the  Forty-second  Foot !" 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs: 

Said  he,  "They're  only  pegs: 
But  there's  as  wooden  members  quite 

As  represent  my  legs !" 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray ; 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 

When  he'd  devoured  his  pay! 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 
And.  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 

Began  to  take  them  off ! 

"Oh,  Nelly  Gray !    Oh,  Nelly  Gray. 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform!" 

Said  she,  "I  loved  a  soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave! 

"Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 

Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another   footing  now!" 

"Oh,  Nelly  Gray !    Oh,  Nelly  Gray ! 
For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 


344  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

At  duty's  call,  I  left  my  legs, 
In  Badajos's  breaches!" 

"Why  then,"  said  she,  "you've  lost  the  feet 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms !" 

"Oh,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse: — 
Though  I've  no  feet — some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes ! 

"I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death ; — alas ! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell!" 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got — 
And  life  was  such  a  burthen  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck, 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 
And  then  removed  his  pegs, 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off, — of  course, 
He  soon  was  off  his  legs ! 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 
As  any  nail  in  town, — 


LIGHT  VERSE  345 

For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 
It  could  not  cut  him  down ! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside ! 

Thomas  Hood  (1799-1845} 

No  discussion  of  shorter,  lighter  poems  would  be  com- 
plete without  an  example  of  the  limerick.  The  author  of 
"The  Young  Lady  of  Niger"  is  unknown. 

There  was  a  young  lady  of  Niger 
Who  smiled  as  she  rode  on  a  Tiger; 

They  came  back  from  the  ride 

With  the  lady  inside, 
And  the  smile  on  the  face  of  the  Tiger. 

The  parody  is  an  exceptionally  interesting  variety  of 
light  verse.  The  better  kind  of  parody  burlesques  not 
merely  the  rhythm  and  diction  but  also  the  sense.  Phoebe 
Gary's  parody  on  Goldsmith's  well-known  song  (see  Chap- 
ter III)  is  better  than  most  of  her  serious  poems. 

WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  WANTS  A  FAVOR 

When  lovely  woman  wants  a  favor, 

And  finds,  too  late,  that  man  won't  bend, 

What  earthly  circumstance  can  save  her 
From  disappointment  in  the  end? 

The  only  way  to  bring  him  over, 
The  last  experiment  to  try, 


346  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Whether  a  husband  or  a  lover, 
If  he  have  a  feeling  is  —  to  cry. 
Phoebe  Gary 


Bret  Harte  is  probably  the  best  of  American  parodists. 
His  parody  of  Whittier's  "Maud  Muller"  is  not  merely 
funny;  it  exposes  effectively  the  false  sentiment  of  that 
popular  poem.  Hence  it  is  sound  criticism. 

MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS 
(Being  the  Only  Genuine  Sequel  to  "Maud  Muller") 

Maud  Muller  all  that  summer  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay; 

Yet,  looking  down  the  distant  lane, 
She  hoped  the  Judge  would  come  again. 

But  when  he  came,  with  smile  and  bow, 
Maud  only  blushed,  and  stammered,  "Ha-ow?" 

And  spoke  of  her  "pa/'  and  wondered  whether 
He'd  give  consent  they  should  wed  together. 

Old  Muller  burst  in  tears,  and  then 

Begged  that  the  Judge  would  lend  him  "ten"; 

For  trade  was  dull,  and  wages  low, 

And  the  "craps,"  this  year,  were  somewhat  slow. 

And  ere  the  languid  summer  died, 
Sweet  Maud  became  the  Judge's  bride. 

But  on  the  day  that  they  were  mated, 
Maud's  brother  Bob  was  intoxicated; 


LIGHT  VERSE  347 

And  Maud's  relations,  twelve  in  all, 
Were  very  drunk  at  the  Judge's  hall; 

And  when  the  summer  came  again, 
The  young  bride  bore  him  babies  twain; 

And  the  Judge  was  blest,  but  thought  it  strange 
That  bearing  children  made  such  a  change; 

For  Maud  grew  broad  and  red  and  stout, 
And  the  waist  that  his  arm  once  clasped  about 

Was  more  than  he  now  could  span ;  and  he 
Sighed  as  he  pondered,  ruefully, 

How  that  which  in  Maud  was  native  grace 
In  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  out  of  place; 

And  thought  of  the  twins,  and  wished  that  they 
Looked  less  like  the  men  who  raked  the  hay 

On  Muller's  farm,  and  dreamed  with  pain 
Of  the  day  he  wandered  down  the  lane. 

And  looking  down  that  dreary  track, 
He  half  regretted  that  he  came  back; 

For,  had  he  waited,  he  might  have  wed 
Some  maiden  fair  and  thoroughbred; 

For  there  be  women  fair  as  she, 
Whose  verbs  and  nouns  do  more  agree. 

Alas  for  maiden!  alas  for  judge! 

And  the  sentimental, — that's  one-half  "fudge"; 


348  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

For  Maud  soon  thought  the  Judge  a  bore, 
With  all  his  learning  and  all  his  lore ; 

And  the  Judge  would  have  bartered  Maud's  fair  face 
For  more  refinement  and  social  grace. 

If,  of  all  words  of  tongue  and  pen, 
The  saddest  are,  "It  might  have  been," 

More  sad  are  these  we  daily  see: 
"It  is,  but  hadn't  ought  to  be." 

Francis  Bret  Harte  (1836-1902} 

In  most  studies  of  poetry  little  attention  is  paid  to 
poems  shorter  than  the  sonnet  and  the  song.  In  an 
anthology,  in  which  the  editor  is  unable  to  include  a  tenth 
of  what  he  would  like  to  use,  short  poems  are  a  veritable 
godsend;  but  they  are  so  interesting  and  often  so  ex- 
cellent that  no  apology  is  needed  for  their  inclusion.  "A 
little  thing  may  be  perfect,"  said  Aldrich,  "but  perfection 
is  not  a  little  thing."  Although  by  no  means  all  the 
shorter  poems  which  are  here  quoted  belong  to  vers  de 
societe,  they  are  all,  at  their  best,  characterized  by  ease, 
naturalness,  finish,  and  to  a  greater  degree  than  any 
other  form  of  poetry,  by  an  epigrammatic  conciseness. 
The  brief  poem  calls  for  an  idea  that  can  be  briefly  ex- 
pressed. It  would  be  fatal  to  expand  into  an  ode  one  of 
the  sonnets  of  Keats  or  to  make  a  sonnet  out  of  Russell 
Hilliard  Loines's  quatrain,  "On  a  Magazine  Sonnet": 

"Scorn  not  the  sonnet,"  though  its  strength  be  sapped, 
Nor  say  malignant  its  inventor  blundered; 

The  corpse  that  here  in  fourteen  lines  is  wrapped 
Had  else  been  covered  with  a  hundred. 


LIGHT  VERSE  349 

The  short  poem  often  takes  the  form  of  an  epigram, 
an  epitaph,  an  inscription,  or  an  autograph.  As  com- 
pared with  the  elegy,  the  epitaph  is  less  an  expression  of 
grief  than  an  attempt  to  sum  up  the  merits  or  faults  of 
its  subject.  The  following  poem,  formerly  ascribed  to 
Ben  Jonson,  who  wrote  many  excellent  epitaphs,  was 
written  by  William  Browne,  a  minor  poet  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  The  Countess  of  Pembroke  was  a  sister 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney ;  it  was  for  her  that  Sidney  wrote  his 
romance,  The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother: 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Fair  and  learn'd  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

In  many  short  poems  the  heroic  couplet,  which  lends 
itself  admirably  to  epigrammatic  conciseness  and  point, 
is  used  to  excellent  effect.  An  example  is  the  epitaph 
which  Alexander  Pope  wrote  for  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  the 
celebrated  discoverer  of  the  law  of  gravitation : 

Nature  and  Nature's  laws  lay  hid  in  night: 
God  said,  Let  Newton  be!  and  all  was  light. 

Tennyson  used  a  different  measure  for  another  superb 
poem  of  the  same  type,  "Sir  John  Franklin:  On  the 
Cenotaph  in  Westminster  Abbey."  Franklin  was  an 
Arctic  explorer  who  died  in  the  far  North. 

Not  here !  the  white  North  has  thy  bones ;  and  thou, 
Heroic  sailor-soul, 


350  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage  now 
Toward  no  earthly  pole. 

Not  inferior  to  any  of  the  preceding  poems  is  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson's  version  of  a  poem  in  the  Greek 
Anthology,  "An  Inscription  by  the  Sea" : 

No  dust  have  I  to  cover  me, 

My  grave  no  man  may  show; 
My  tomb  is  this  unending  sea, 

And  I  lie  far  below. 
My  fate,  O  stranger,  was  to  drown; 
And  where  it  was  the  ship  went  down 

Is  what  the  sea-birds  know. 

Epitaphs  in  lighter  vein  are  very  numerous.  An  eight- 
eenth century  poet,  John  Gay,  wrote  an  epitaph  for 
himself  which  some  one  actually  inscribed  upon  his  tomb : 

Life  is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it: 
I  thought  so  once,  and  now  I  know  it. 

A  famous  epitaph  by  an  otherwise  forgotten  poet  is  the 
Earl  of  Rochester's  "Epitaph  on  Charles  II."  King 
Charles,  who  came  to  the  throne  in  1660,  was  easy-going, 
witty,  and  good-natured,  but  dissipated  and  unprincipled. 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 

Whose  word  no  man  relies  on, 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 

Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one. 

Some  of  the  best  of  British  epitaphs  were  written  by 
Burns.  Most  of  them  are  humorous,  but  "A  Bard's 
Epitaph,"  already  quoted,  is  one  of  the  best  of  his  serious 


LIGHT  VERSE  351 

poems.  The  poem  quoted  below  is  his  "Epitaph  on  John 
Dove,"  an  innkeeper.  Ken  means  know ;  carl,  fellow ; 
maun,  must;  memento  mori,  remember  that  all  must  die; 
warl\  world. 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pidgeon ; 
What  was  his  religion  ? 

Wha  e'er  desires  to  ken, 
To  some  other  warl' 
Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pidgeon  had  nane ! 

Strong  ale  was  ablution, 
Small  beer  persecution, 

A  dram  was  memento  mori; 
But  a  full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  saving  his  soul, 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 

As  every  reader  of  Burns,  Scott,  and  Stevenson  will 
recall,  some  of  the  strangest  and  most  romantic  episodes 
in  English  poetry  and  fiction  concern  the  attempts  of  the 
Jacobites,  followers  of  James  II  and  his  descendants,  to 
place  one  or  another  of  the  worthless  Stuart  family  upon 
the  British  throne.  In  "A  Jacobite's  Epitaph,"  another 
Scotchman,  Lord  Macaulay,  points  out  the  real  pathos 
of  this  devotion  to  a  lost  cause: 

To  my  true  king  I  offered  free  from  stain 
Courage  and  faith;  vain  faith,  and  courage  vain. 
For  him  I  threw  lands,  honours,  wealth  away, 
And  one  dear  hope  that  was  more  prized  than  they. 
For  him  I  languished  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Grey-haired  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's  prime; 


352  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Heard  on  Lavernia  Scargill's  whispering  trees, 
And  pined  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees ; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fevered  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to  weep; 
Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting-place  I  asked,  an  early  grave. 
O  thou,  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless  stone, 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once  mine  own, 
By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see, 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  spake  like  thee, 
Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.    A  broken  heart  lies  here. 

There  are  a  number  of  beautiful  short  poems  concerned 
with  death  which  do  not  come  under  the  head  of  epitaphs. 
One  of  the  best  of  these  is  an  Anglo-Saxon  couplet  sup- 
posed to  have  been  inscribed  upon  the  true  cross  on  which 
Jesus  was  crucified.  This  poem,  known  as  the  "Brussels 
Cross  Inscription,"  has  been  thus  translated  by  Professor 
Chauncey  B.  Tinker: 

Rood  is  my  name.     Once  long  ago  I  bore 
Trembling,  bedewed  with  blood,  the  mighty  King. 

A  more  famous  short  poem  is  the  Roman  Emperor 
Hadrian's  address  "To  his  Soul,"  which  has  been  trans- 
lated by  Matthew  Prior : 

Poor  little,  pretty,  fluttering  thing, 

Must  we  no  longer  live  together? 
And  dost  thou  prune  thy  trembling  wing, 

To  take  thy  flight  thou  know'st  not  whither? 

Thy  humorous  vein,  thy  pleasing  folly 
Lie  all  neglected,  all  forgot: 


LIGHT  VERSE  353 

And  pensive,  wavering,  melancholy, 

Thou  dread'st  and  hop'st  thou  know'st  not  what. 

The  following  lines  by  Emily  Dickinson  recall  Gray's 
famous  "Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard": 

This  quiet  Dust  was  Gentlemen  and  Ladies, 

And  Lads  and  Girls ; 
Was  laughter  and  ability  and  sighing, 

And  frocks  and  curls. 
This  passive  place  a  Summer's  nimble  mansion, 

Where  Bloom  and  Bees 
Fulfilled  their  Oriental  Circuit, 

Then  ceased  like  these.* 

Two  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  brief  poems  are 
Goethe's  "Wanderer's  Night-songs,"  which  Longfellow 
has  skilfully  translated: 


Thou  that  from  the  heavens  art, 
Every  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
And  the  doubly  wretched  heart 
Doubly  with  refreshment  fillest, 
I  am  weary  with  contending! 
Why  this  rapture  and  unrest? 
Peace  descending 
Come,  ah,  come  into  my  breast ! 

ii 

O'er  all  the  hill-tops 
Is  quiet  now, 
In  all  the  tree-tops 
Hearest  thou 

*  Copyrighted  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


354*  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Hardly  a  breath; 

The  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees: 

Wait;  soon  like  these 

Thou  too  shalt  rest. 

Walter  Savage  Landor  has  more  great  short  poems  to 
his  credit  than  any  other  English  poet.  The  best  known 
of  these,  after  "Rose  Aylmer,"  is  "On  his  Seventy-fifth 
Birthday" : 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife ; 

Nature  I  loved,  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art; 
I  warm'd  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life; 

It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

Hardly  inferior  to  this  is  his  quatrain,  "On  Death": 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 

I  know  not  what  into  my  ear: 
Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 

Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 

In  a  lighter  vein  is  Lander's  "With  Petrarch's  Son- 
nets": 

Behold  what  homage  to  his  idol  paid 

The  tuneful  suppliant  of  Valclusa's  shade. 

His  verses  still  the  tender  heart  engage, 

They  charm'd  a  rude,  and  please  a  polish'd  age: 

Some  are  to  nature  and  to  passion  true, 

And  all  had  been  so,  had  he  lived  for  you. 

Using  the  same  metrical  form,  Matthew  Prior  pays  a  lady 
a  similar  compliment  in  his  lines  "Written  in  a  Lady's 
Milton": 


LIGHT  VERSE  355 

With  virtue  such  as  yours  had  Eve  been  arm'd, 
In  vain  the  fruit  had  blush'd,  the  serpent  charm'd. 
Nor  had  our  bliss  by  penitence  been  bought, 
Nor  had  frail  Adam  fall'n,  nor  Milton  wrote. 

"Her  Initials,"  by  Thomas  Hardy,  tells  a  different  story. 

Upon  a  poet's  page  I  wrote 
Of  old  two  letters  of  her  name; 
Part  seemed  she  of  the  effulgent  thought 
Whence  that  high  singer's  rapture  came. 
— When  now  I  turn  the  leaf  the  same 
Immortal  light  illumes  the  lay, 
But  from  the  letters  of  her  name 
The  radiance  has  waned  away ! 

The  eighteenth  century  was  fond  of  such  witty,  cynical 
epigrams  as  the  following  couplet  which  Pope  caused  to 
be  engraved  on  the  collar  of  a  dog  which  he  presented  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales : 

I  am  His  Highness'  dog  at  Kew; 
Pray,  tell  me,  sir,  whose  dog  are  you? 

Much  more   modern  in   sentiment  is   William   Watson's 
epitaph  for  a  dog: 

His  friends  he  loved.     His  direst  earthly  foes — 
Cats — I  believe  he  did  but  feign  to  hate. 

My  hand  will  miss  the  insinuated  nose, 

Mine  eyes  the  tail  that  wagg'd  contempt  at  fate. 

Let  us  return  for  a  moment  to  the  eighteenth  century, 
which  has  given  us  so  many  epigrams.  Mrs.  Jane  Brereton 
wrote  the  clever  quatrain,  "On  Beau  Nash's  Picture,  which 


356  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

once   Stood  between  the  Busts   of  Newton  and  Pope.'* 
Beau  Nash  was  a  famous  dandy  and  social  leader  at  Bath. 

This  picture  placed  these  busts  between, 

Gives  satire  its  full  strength; 
Wisdom  and  wit  are  seldom  seen, 

But  folly  at  full  length. 

The  above  lines  suggested  the  following  quatrain  by  the 
Earl  of  Chesterfield : 

Immortal  Newton  never  spoke 

More  truth  than  here  you'll  find; 

Nor  Pope  himself  e'er  penn'd  a  joke 
Severer  on  mankind. 

One  of  the  best  of  American  quatrains  is  "Woman's 
Will"  by  John  Godfrey  Saxe: 

Men,  dying,  make  their  wills;  but  wives 

Escape  a  work  so  sad; 
Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 

The  gentle  dames  have  had? 

A   contemporary  American  poet,   Willard  Wattles,  has 
written  a  clever  quatrain  entitled  "Creeds" :  * 

How  pitiful  are  little  folk — 

They  seem  so  very  small; 
They  look  at  stars,  and  think  they  are 

Denominational. 

Leigh  Hunt,  the  friend  of  Keats,  is  best  remembered 
for  his  "Rondeau,"  which  is  technically  not  a  rondeau  at 
all.  The  Jenny  of  the  poem  was  Mrs.  Thomas  Carlyle. 

*  By  permission  from  Lanterns  in  Oethsemane  by  Willard  Wattles, 
copyright  by  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company. 


LIGHT  VERSE  357 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in ! 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add 

Jenny  kissed  me. 

"To  a  Post-Office  Inkwell,"  by  Christopher  Morley,  who 
edits  for  the  New  York  Evening  Post  a  "colyum"  called 
"The  Bowling  Green,"  is  one  of  the  best  of  latter-day 
short  poems : 

How  many  humble  hearts  have  dipped 
In  you,  and  scrawled  their  manuscript! 
How  shared  their  secrets,  told  their  cares, 
Their  curious   and  quaint  affairs ! 
Your  pool  of  ink,  your  scratchy  pen, 
Have  moved  the  lives  of  unborn  men, 
And  watched  young  people,  breathing  hard, 
Put  Heaven  on  a  postal  card. 

Autograph  poems  are  numerous  but  usually  poor  in 
quality.  Not  quite  sincere,  perhaps,  but  certainly  im- 
pressive are  Byron's  "Lines  Written  in  an  Album  at 
Malta": 

As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 
Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by; 

Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 
May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye ! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year, 


358  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead, 

And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 

Although  Lowell's  "For  an  Autograph"  is  too  much  of 
a  sermon,  it  is  otherwise  excellent: 

Though  old  the  thought  and  oft  exprest, 
'Tis  his  at  last  who  says  it  best, — 
I'll  try  my  fortune  with  the  rest. 

Life  is  a  leaf  of  paper  white 
Whereon  each  one  of  us  may  write 
His  word  or  two,  and  then  comes  night. 

"Lo,  time  and  space  enough,"  we  cry, 
"To  write  an  epic !"  so  we  try 
Our  nibs  upon  the  edge,  and  die. 

Muse  not  which  way  the  pen  to  hold, 
Luck  hates  the  slow  and  loves  the  bold, 
Soon  come  the  darkness  and  the  cold. 

Greatly  begin !  though  thou  have  time 
But  for  a  line,  be  that  sublime, — 
Not  failure,  but  low  aim,  is  crime. 

Ah,  with  what  lofty  hope  we  came ! 
But  we  forget  it,  dream  of  fame, 
And  scrawl,  as  I  do  here,  a  name. 

For  the  Soldiers'  and   Sailors'  Monument  in  Boston 
Lowell  wrote  the  following  quatrain: 

To  those  who  died  for  her  on  land  and  sea, 
That  she  might  have  a  country  great  and  free, 
Boston  builds  this:  build  ye  her  monument 
In  lives  like  theirs,  at  duty's  summons  spent. 


LIGHT  VERSE  359 

Perhaps  Richard  Watson  Gilder  had  the  above  poem  in 
mind  when  he  wrote  the  following  quatrain  for  Lowell's 
birthday : 

Navies  nor  armies  can  exalt  the  state, — 

Millions  of  men,  nor  coined  wealth  untold: 
Down  to  the  pit  may  sink  a  land  of  gold; 

But  one  great  name  can  make  a  country  great. 

William  Watson  has  more  good  epigrams  to  his 
credit  than  any  other  living  poet.  His  "To  Christina 
Rossetti"  is  a  beautiful  tribute  to  one  of  the  greatest 
women  who  have  written  poetry ;  for  Christina  Rossetti 
was  a  genuine  poet,  not  a  poetaster  or  a  mere  "poetess." 
The  two  other  women  referred  to  in  the  poem  are  prob- 
ably Sappho  and  Mrs.  Browning. 

Songstress,  in  all  times  ended  and  begun, 
Thy  billowy-bosom'd  fellows  are  not  three. 

Of  those  sweet  peers,  the  grass  is  green  o'er  one; 
And  blue  above  the  other  is  the  sea. 

Brief  poems  in  free  verse  are  rare,  for  free  verse  ap- 
pears so  easy  to  write  that  it  tempts  the  poet  into  diffuse- 
ness.  Nevertheless  there  are  some  short  poems  in  free 
verse  which  attain  high  excellence.  Whitman's  "To  Old 
Age"  is  one  of  the  best : 

I  see  in  you  the  estuary  that  enlarges  and  spreads 
itself  grandly  as  its  pours  in  the  great  sea. 

Ezra  Pound's  "In  a  Station  of  the  Metro,"  or  London 
subway,  gives  a  striking  picture: 


360  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  apparition  of  these  faces  in  the  crowd; 
Petals  on  a  wet,  black  bough. 

A  contemporary  American  poet,  Adelaide  Crapsey,  has 
written  many  "cinquains,"  free  verse  poems  in  five  lines. 

TRIAD 

These  be 

Three  silent  things: 

The  falling  snow  .  .  .  the  hour 

Before  the  dawn  .  .  .  the  mouth  of  one 

Just  dead. 

THE  WARNING 

Just  now, 

Out  of  the  strange 

Still  dusk  ...  as  strange,  as  still  .  .  . 

A  white  moth  flew.    Why  am  I  grown 

So  cold? 

These  two  poems  remind  one  of  the  short  Japanese 
form  called  the  hokkti,  a  poem  of  only  three  lines,  in 
which  the  poet  endeavors  to  condense  his  thought  into 
the  smallest  possible  space.  The  great  and  growing  in- 
fluence of  Asfiatic  poetry  on  contemporary  verse  has 
tended  to  bring  about  greater  conciseness  and  finish. 
Amy  Lowell  and  Witter  Bynner  have  recently  translated 
a  large  number  of  Chinese  poems  for  American  readers. 

In  taking  leave  of  light  verse,  we  can  do  no  better  than 
quote  Austin  Dobson's  plea  for  this  rare  and  difficult  type 
of  poetry.  Dobson,  until  his  death  in  1921,  was  the 


LIGHT  VERSE  361 

greatest  living  master  of  vers  de  societe  and  kindred 
forms.  The  following  poem  is  very  exceptional  in  that  it 
employs  only  feminine  rimes. 

JOCOSA  LYRA 

In  our  hearts  is  the  Great  One  of  Avon 

Engraven, 

And  we  climb  the  cold  summits  once  built  on 

By  Milton. 

But  at  times  not  the  air  that  is  rarest 

Is  fairest, 

And  we  long  in  the  valley  to  follow 

Apollo. 

Then  we  drop  from  the  heights  atmospheric 

To  Herrick, 

Or  we  pour  the  Greek  honey,  grown  blander, 

Of  Landor; 

Or  our  cosiest  nook  in  the  shade  is 

Where  Praed  is, 

Or  we  toss  the  light  bells  of  the  mocker 

With  Locker. 

Oh,  the  song  where  not  one  of  the  Graces 

Tight-laces, — 

Where  we  woo  the  sweet  Muses  not  starchly, 

But  archly, — 

Where  the  verse,  like  a  piper  a-Maying, 

Comes  playing, — 

And  the  rhyme  is  as  gay  as  a  dancer 

In  answer, — 


362  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

It  will  last  till  men  weary  of  pleasure 

In  measure ! 

It  will  last  till  men  weary  of  laughter  .   . 

And  after ! 
Austin  Dobson 


J 

01 


CHAPTER  X 

FREE  VERSE 

The  conceits  of  the  poets  of  other  lands  I'd  bring  thee  not, 
•Nor  the  compliments  that  have  served  their  turn  so  long, 
Nor  rime,  nor  the  classics,  nor  perfume  of  foreign  court  or 

indoor  library. 
Walt  Whitman:  "Thou  Mother  with  thy  Equal  Brood" 

RIME,  as  we  have  seen,  is  not  essential  to  poetry;  for 
if  it  were,  we  should  be  forced  to  the  absurd  conclusion 
that  Hamlet  and  Paradise  Lost  are  not  poetry.  Writers 
of  free  verse  have  forced  us  to  abandon  meter,  the  tradi- 
tional mark  of  distinction  between  poetry  and  prose. 
Rhythm,  every  one  admits,  is  essential ;  but  literary  prose 
has  also  a  rhythm  of  its  own  which  it  is  difficult,  if  not 
impossible,  to  distinguish  from  that  of  poetry.  A  bril- 
liant contemporary  critic,  J.  E.  Spingarn,  actually  goes 
so  far  as  to  say,  "The  fact  is  that  there  is  no  real  dis- 
tinction between  prose  and  verse." 

Certain  older  poets  and  critics  long  ago  conceded  the 
fundamental  principle  of  free  verse  when  they  admitted 
that  meter  is  not  an  essential  of  poetry.  Aristotle, 
writing  over  two  thousand  years  ago,  said  that  poetry  is 
to  be  distinguished  from  prose  by  something  other  than 
meter.  The  history  of  Herodotus,  he  said,  would  remain 
history  if  it  were  written  in  verse.  Sidney,  Wordsworth, 

363 


364  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Coleridge,  Shelley,  and  Emerson  all  admitted  that  meter 
is  not  essential,  although  none  of  them  attempted  free 
verse,  as  logically  they  should  have  done.  Poetic  prose, 
or  prose  poetry,  however,  many  older  authors  did  write. 
In  this  anomalous  form  Sidney,  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
Milton,  DeQuincey,  Lamb,  Poe,  and  Emerson,  to  name  no 
others,  all  endeavored,  like  present-day  writers  of  free 
verse,  to  explore  the  uncertain  borderland  which  separates 
verse  from  prose.  The  prose  poems  of  Ossian,  which 
enjoyed  a  tremendous  vogue  all  over  Europe  in  the  late 
eighteenth  century,  are  perhaps  the  most  famous  of  the 
early  specimens  of  free  verse. 

Ever  since  the  divorce  of  poetry  from  music,  there  has 
been  an  increasing  tendency  to  irregularity  in  poetic  form. 
Many  older  poems  are  to  be  distinguished  from  free  verse 
only  by  the  use  of  rime.  Dryden's  "Alexander's  Feast," 
Coleridge's  "Kubla  Khan,"  Arnold's  "Dover  Beach,"  and 
Tennyson's  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton" have  neither  regular  stanzaic  form,  length  of  line, 
nor  uniform  metrical  movement.  Dryden,  in  his  irregular 
ode,  mixes  trochaic,  iambic,  and  anapestic  feet  almost  as 
freely  as  Walt  Whitman  and  Carl  Sandburg  do.  More- 
over, in  poems  which  purport  to  be  regular,  we  find  wide 
variations  from  the  normal  form.  Browning's  line, 

Historical  and  philosophical, 
is  meant  for  blank  verse;  but  so  also  is  Milton's 

Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and  shades  of  death. 

Both  these  lines  are  meant  to  be  read  as  iambic  pentam- 
eter! Anapestic  and  dactylic  poems,  as  we  have  seen, 


FREE  VERSE  365 

are     almost     invariably     irregular.       Their     popularity 
throughout  the  nineteenth  century  is  significant. 

Long  before  the  time  of  Whitman,  English  poets  ex- 
perimented with  unrimed  forms  apart  from  blank  verse. 
Orthodox  poets  like  Scott,  Tennyson,  Longfellow,  and 
Lowell  imitated  Anglo-Saxon  and  Icelandic  poetry,  which 
employed  alliteration  instead  of  rime  and  required  no  fixed 
number  of  syllables  in  each  line.  In  fact,  as  one  reads 
Tennyson's  translation  of  the  Old  English  "Battle  of 
Brunanburh,"  free  verse  seems  almost  a  reversion  to  the 
earliest  known  form  of  English  poetry.  In  "Merlin  and 
the  Gleam,"  Tennyson,  without  stressing  alliteration, 
imitated  this  Anglo-Saxon  unrimed  form. 

Launch  your  vessel, 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  the  Gleam. 

Aside  from  blank  verse  and  free  verse,  probably  the 
best  unrimed  poem  in  the  language  is  William  Collins's 
"Ode  to  Evening."  The  stanza  which  Collins  employs 
consists  of  two  iambic  pentameter  lines  followed  by  two 
of  iambic  trimeter. 

ODE  TO  EVENING 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales; 


366  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

O  Nymph  reserved, — while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat, 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum: 

Now  teach  me,  Maid  composed 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May,  not  unseemly,  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return. 

For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene; 
Or  find  some  ruin,  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 


FREE  VERSE  367 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy   gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favorite  name. 

William  Collins  (1721-1759} 

If  we  go  to  other  literatures  than  English,  we  find 
that  both  rime  and  meter  are  often  unknown.  Rime  is  not 
found  in  classical  Latin,  Greek,  or  Hebrew,  and  very 
rarely  in  English  poetry  until  after  the  Norman  Conquest 
in  1066.  Hebrew  poetry  has  nothing,  either  in  the 
original  or  in  translation,  which  corresponds  to  English 
meter  or  rime.  Yet  who  that  disputes  the  claims  of  free 
verse  will  deny  that  the  following  lines  from  the  Nine- 
teenth Psalm  are  poetry? 


368  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God; 

And  the  firmament  sheweth  his  handywork. 

Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech, 

And  night  unto  night  sheweth  knowledge. 

There  is  no  speech  nor  language; 

Their  voice  cannot  be  heard. 

Their  line  is  gone  out  through  all  the  earth, 

And  their  words  to  the  end  of  the  world. 


Ever  since  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  there  have  been 
attempts  in  English  to  write  poetry  in  classical  meters, 
in  order  to  avoid  rime  and  the  iambic  movement.  The 
hexameter  used  by  Longfellow  in  Evangeline  is  the  one 
classical  form  which  has  won  a  real  foothold — and  since 
in  Latin  and  Greek  verse  quantity  and  not  accent  is  the 
guiding  principle,  Longfellow's  hexameters  are  very  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  Homer  and  Vergil.  Upon  the  modern 
reader,  who,  like  Shakespeare,  usually  has  "small  Latin 
and  less  Greek,"  the  effect  is  practically  the  same  as  that 
of  free  verse.  The  sapphic  stanza,  named  for  the  Greek 
poet  Sappho,  has  tempted  a  considerable  number  of  Eng- 
lish and  American  poets.  Sara  Teasdale  (Mrs.  Fil- 
singer),  one  of  the  best  of  contemporary  lyric  poets  and 
an  ardent  admirer  of  Sappho,  has  written  the  following 
striking  lyric  in  the  sapphic  stanza. 

THE  LAMP 

If  I  can  bear  your  love  like  a  lamp  before  me, 
When  I  go  down  the  long  steep  Road  of  Darkness, 
I  shall  not  fear  the  everlasting  shadows, 
Nor  cry  in  terror. 


FREE  VERSE  369 

If  I  can  find  out  God,  then  I  shall  find  Him; 
If  none  can  find  Him,  then  I  shall  sleep  soundly, 
Knowing  how  well  on  earth  your  love  sufficed  me, 
A  lamp  in  darkness. 

Sara  Teasdale  (1884-  ) 

Not  long  before  Whitman  published  his  Leaves  of 
Grass  in  1855,  Matthew  Arnold  began  to  write  unrimed 
poems  which  approximate  free  verse.  "The  Youth  of 
Nature,"  "The  Future,"  "The  Strayed  Reveller,"  and 
"Rugby  Chapel"  are  much  nearer  to  free  verse  than  we 
should  have  expected  from  any  Victorian  poet.  Arnold 
may  have  found  a  precedent  in  Southey's  Thalaba, 
Shelley's  Queen  Mob,  or  even  in  the  choruses  of  Milton's 
Samson  Agonistes;  all  these  are  distinguished  from  free 
verse  only  by  a  prevailing  iambic  movement.  After 
Keats's  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale,"  Arnold's  "Philomela"  is 
the  best  poem  upon  the  favorite  bird  of  the  English  poets. 

PHILOMELA 

Hark!  ah,  the  nightingale — 

The  tawny-throated ! 

Hark,  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst! 

What  triumph  !  hark ! — what  pain ! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 

That  wild,  unquench'd,  deep-sunken,  old-world  pain — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal? 

And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 


370  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass, 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 

With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 

Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 

Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 

Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 

Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale? 

Listen,  Eugenia — 

How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the  leaves ! 

Again — thou  hearest? 
^Eternal  passionJ 
VEternal  pain!^ 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888} 

Modern  free  verse,  or  vers  libre,  as  it  is  often  unnec- 
essarily named,  goes  back  chiefly  to  Walt  Whitman.  Yet 
the  English  poet  William  Blake  wrote  free  verse  before 
Whitman  was  born.  Blake  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
meter  was  as  much  of  a  bondage  as  rime.  "I  therefore," 
he  says,  "produced  a  variety  in  every  line,  both  of 
cadences  and  number  of  syllables.  Every  word  and  every 
letter  is  studied  and  put  into  its  fit  place:  the  terrific 
numbers  are  reserved  for  the  terrific  parts,  and  the  pro- 
saic for  inferior  parts :  all  are  necessary  to  each  other. 


FREE  VERSE  371 

Poetry  Fetter'd  Fetters  the  Human  Race!'*  One  can 
hardly  find  a  better  definition  of  free  verse  even  today. 
Blake's  poetry,  however,  attracted  practically  no  atten- 
tion until  half  a  century  after  his  death;  and  he  has 
received  little  credit  as  an  innovator.  It  was  Whitman 
who  fought  and  won  the  battle  for  free  verse. 

As  we  have  shown,  there  were  many  poems  which  ap- 
proximated modern  free  verse  before  Whitman  published 
his  Leaves  of  Grass  in  1855.  Whitman's  only  metrical 
innovation  consisted  in  discarding  at  once  both  meter  and 
rime;  each  of  these  had  been  separately  abandoned  by 
older  poets.  It  is  difficult  nowadays  to  understand  the 
uproar  raised  by  Leaves  of  Grass  until  we  discover  that 
it  was  really  the  strangeness  of  Whitman's  language  and 
subject  matter  that  called  down  upon  "the  good  gray 
poet"  the  wrath  of  our  fathers.  Present-day  readers  like- 
wise frequently  condemn  contemporary  free  verse  solely 
because  they  dislike  the  poet's  language  and  opinions. 

Every  great  poet  first  disturbs  and  ultimately  enlarges 
our  conception  of  poetry;  and  hence  almost  every  great 
poet  finds  critics  who  deny  that  he  is  a  poet  at  all.  The 
literary  taste  of  the  average  reader,  founded  upon  older 
authors  like  Keats  and  Tennyson,  is  usually  at  least  half 
a  century  behind  that  of  living  writers.  When  the 
average  person  comes  across  a  poem  by  Carl  Sandburg 
or  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  he  is  shocked  by  something  to 
which  he  is  unaccustomed;  and  he  illogically  calls  it  bad 
art.  Norwegian  critics  maintained  that  Ibsen's  Peer 
Gynt  was  not  poetry  because  it  violated  all  established 
rules.  Ibsen  replied :  "My  book  is  poetry.  .  .  .  The  Nor- 
wegian conception  of  what  poetry  is,  shall  be  made  to  fit 


372  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

my  book."  So  Whitman  said  of  his  Leaves  of  Grass;  and 
today  few  or  no  literary  critics  deny  that  both  Ibsen  and 
Whitman  were  genuine  poets.  Nothing  is  more  foolish 
than  to  condemn  an  author  for  not  conforming  to  rules. 
As  Sidney  Lanier  once  wrote,  "For  the  artist  in  verse 
there  is  no  law;  the  perception  and  love  of  beauty  con- 
stitute the  whole  outfit." 

Much  of  the  objection  to  free  verse  is  due  solely  to  its 
unconventional  appearance  on  the  printed  page.  The 
free  verse  poet  divides  his  sentences  so  that  the  pauses 
shall  come  at  the  ends  of  the  lines ;  in  other  words,  he 
prints  his  poem  as  it  is  to  be  read.  When  an  unrimed 
poem  is  read  aloud,  the  average  person  is  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish free  verse  from  blank  verse  or  even  from  rhythmic 
prose.  One  of  the  four  following  selections  is  in  free 
verse,  another  in  blank  verse,  a  third  in  prose,  and  a 
fourth  in  rime.  Can  you  tell  at  a  glance  which  is  which? 

She  lay  stone-still 

In  a  trance  of  terror  and  mournfulness, 
Mechanically  counting  the  tears  as  they  fell, 
One  by  one. 

The  white  mist, 
Like  a  face-cloth  to  the  face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth, 
And  the  land  was  still. 

The  New  World  shook  him  off; 

The  Old  yet  groans  beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared, 

If  not  completed: 

He  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones  to  all  his  vices, 

Without  what  begot  compassion  for  him — 

His  tame  virtues. 


FREE  VERSE  373 

In  youth  my  wings  were  strong  and  tireless, 

But  I  did  not  know  the  mountains. 

In  age  I  knew  the  mountains 

But  my  weary  wings  could  not  follow  my  vision — 

Genius  is  wisdom  and  youth. 

The  first  passage  is  in  prose,  and  is  taken  from  Mere- 
dith's Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel.  The  second  is  in  blank 
verse,  from  Tennyson's  "Guinevere."  The  third  is  part 
of  a  rimed  stanza  in  Byron's  "Vision  of  Judgment." 
Only  the  fourth  selection  is  free  verse;  it  is  a  complete 
poem  entitled  "Alexander  Throckmorton"  from  Edgar 
Lee  Masters's  Spoon  River  Anthology.  All  four  passages 
are  poetic  and  rhythmical,  but  only  the  second  and  third 
are  metrical. 

One  of  the  most  poetic  writers  of  today  is  the  Irish 
dramatist,  Lord  Dunsany.  Although  written  in  prose, 
his  plays  are  full  of  poetry.  His  Fifty-one  Tales,  from 
which  the  following  selection  is  taken,  come  much  nearer 
being  great  poetry  than  most  contemporary  free  verse. 
Dunsany's  style,  which  seems  to  have  been  modeled  upon 
Homer  and  the  Bible,  is  characterized  by  a  chaste  beauty 
and  a  rigid  economy.  The  line  which  he  quotes  from  the 
Iliad  is  one  of  the  most  admired  lines  in  Homer.  It 
may  be  translated:  "He  went  silently  along  the  shore  of 
the  loud-sounding  sea." 

THE  WORM  AND  THE  ANGEL* 

As  he  crawled  from  the  tombs  of  the  fallen  a  worm  met 
with  an  angel. 

And  together  they  looked  upon  the  kings  and  kingdoms, 
*  Copyrighted  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


374  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

and  youths  and  maidens  and  the  cities  of  men.  They  saw 
the  old  men  heavy  in  their  chairs  and  heard  the  children 
singing  in  the  fields.  They  saw  far  wars  and  warriors  and 
walled  towns,  wisdom  and  wickedness,  and  the  pomp  of 
kings,  and  the  people  of  all  the  lands  that  the  sunlight  knew. 
And  the  worm  spake  to  the  angel  saying:  "Behold  my 
food." 


"&•?!  8'  aKtuv  irapa  Blva  7roXu0Xoto'/3oto  0aXd(r<r?7s," 

murmured  the  angel,  for  they  walked  by  the  sea,  "and  can 
you  destroy  that  too?" 

And  the  worm  paled  in  his  anger  to  a  greyness  ill  to  behold, 
for  for  three  thousand  years  he  had  tried  to  destroy  that  line 
and  still  its  melody  was  ringing  in  his  head. 

Lord  Dunsany   (1878-  ) 

Walt  Whitman  is  preeminently  the  poet  of  American 
democracy.  While  Longfellow  and  Holmes  were  wooing 
the  courtly  muses  of  Europe,  Whitman  turned  his  back 
upon  the  traditional  subject  matter,  metrical  forms,  and 
language  of  poetry  in  an  endeavor  to  translate  into 
poetry  American  life  and  American  ideals.  There  is  little 
that  is  distinctively  national  about  the  work  of  Foe  and 
the  New  England  poets,  excellent  as  their  poems  often 
are.  "Too  many  of  your  American  writers  are  echoes," 
says  the  Hindu  poet  Tagore  ;  "but  Whitman  is  a  voice." 
Before  America  could  be  adequately  put  into  poetry,  so 
it  seemed  to  Whitman,  poetry  itself  had  to  be  democra- 
tized. Rime  and  meter  had  to  go.  The  "divine  average," 
not  Shakespeare's  kings,  Tennyson's  knights,  or  Homer's 
chieftains,  were  to  supply  the  heroes  of  American  poetry. 
Poems  were  to  be  written,  not  for  a  few  cultured  aristo- 
crats, but  for  the  whole  people. 


FREE  VERSE  375 

The  strangest  fact  about  Whitman's  work  is  that 
though  it  was  intended  for  the  masses,  the  average  man  in 
the  street  has  remained  wholly  indifferent  to  it.  In  Whit- 
man's time  the  prevailing  American  notion  of  poetry  was 
represented  not  by  Leaves  of  Grass  but  by  "The  Village 
Blacksmith"  and  Evangeline.  During  his  lifetime  Whit- 
man's chief  admirers  were  cultured  Englishmen.  Curi- 
ously enough,  it  was  Whitman's  vogue  abroad,  which  is 
still  enormous  and  increasing,  that  forced  Americans  to 
recognize  him.  Although  Emerson  and  Thoreau  both 
hailed  him  as  a  genuine  poet,  it  is  to  Englishmen  like 
Rossetti  and  Swinburne  that  we  go  for  characteristic 
praise.  The  finest  tribute  ever  paid  to  Whitman  is  Swin- 
burne's "To  Walt  Whitman  in  America,"  from  which  we 
quote  the  following  stanzas : 

Send  but  a  song  oversea  for  us, 
Heart  of  their  hearts  who  are  free, 

Heart  of  their  singer,  to  be  for  us 
More  than  our  singing  can  be; 

Ours  in  the  tempest  at  error, 

With  no  light  but  the  twilight  of  terror ; 
Send  us  a  song  oversea !  .  .  . 

Make  us,  too,  music,  to  be  with  us 

As  a  word  from  a  world's  heart  warm, 

To  sail  the  dark  as  a  sea  with  us, 
Full-sailed,  outsinging  the  storm, 

A  song  to  put  fire  in  our  ears 

Whose  burning  shall  burn  up  tears, 
Whose  sign  bid  battle  reform. 

Since  Whitman's  verse  is  singularly  uneven,  it  is  best 
for  the  beginner  to  read  him  first  in  selected  poems. 


376  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

When  trying  to  illustrate  his  theory  that  all  things  are 
poetical,  Whitman  often  wrote  wretched  stuff  which 
sounds  like  a  telephone  directory  or  Who's  Who  in 
America ;  but  when  he  wrote  spontaneously  of  what  he 
knew  and  felt,  he  produced  great  and  original  poetry. 
His  later  poems  are  much  less  uneven  in  merit  than  his 
earlier  verse. 

Whitman's  poetry  was  not  meant  for  those  who  wish 
merely  to  while  away  an  idle  hour.  He  might  have  said  of 
his  poems,  as  Browning  said  of  his,  that  he  never  meant 
them  to  take  the  place  of  an  after-dinner  cigar. 

TO  A  CERTAIN  CIVILIAN 

Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me? 

Did  you  seek  the  civilian's  peaceful  and  languishing  rhymes  ? 

Did  you  find  what  I  sang  erewhile  so  hard  to  follow, 

Why,  I  was  not  singing  erewhile  for  you  to  follow,  to  under- 
stand— nor  am  I  now 

(I  have  been  born  of  the  same  as  the  war  was  born, 

The  drum-corps'  rattle  is  ever  to  me  sweet  music,  I  love  well 
the  martial  dirge, 

With   slow   wail   and   convulsive   throb    leading   the   officer's 
funeral)  ; 

What  to  such  as  you  anyhow  such  a  poet  as  I  ?  therefore  leave 
my  works, 

And  go  lull  yourself  with  what  you  can  understand,  and  with 
piano-tunes, 

For  I  lull  nobody,  and  you  will  never  understand  me. 

Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892} 

There  are  those  who  maintain  that  Whitman's  compo- 
sitions are  not  finished  poems  but  merely  the  raw  material 
untranslated  into  poetry.  Of  some  of  his  poems  and  of 


FREE  VERSE  377 

parts  of  others,  this  is  undeniably  true.  In  the  following 
poem  the  opening  lines  seem  prosaic,  but  they  prepare  us 
for  the  conclusion,  which  is  genuine  poetry.  One  who 
looks  at  the  stars  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  mathema- 
tician will  see  very  little  poetry  in  them,  for  science  and 
poetry  hold  opposite  attitudes  toward  the  facts  of  life. 
The  poetic  attitude  is  found  in  the  Nineteenth  Psalm  or 
in  the  poem  which  we  quote  from  Whitman. 

WHEN  I  HEARD  THE  LEARN'D  ASTRONOMER 

When  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer, 

When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged  in  columns  before 

me, 
When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  diagrams,  to  add,  divide, 

and  measure  them, 
When  I  sitting  heard  the  astronomer  where  he  lectured  with 

much  applause  in  the  lecture-room, 
How  soon  unaccountable  I  became  tired  and  sick, 
Till  rising  and  gliding  out  I  wander'd  off  by  myself, 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time, 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 

Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892} 

The  Civil  War  marks  the  great  crisis  in  Whitman's 
life.  Though  it  tried  his  faith  in  American  democracy  as 
nothing  else  ever  did,  he  came  out  with  his  faith  con- 
firmed. His  Drum-Taps  is  the  best  volume  of  poems  in- 
spired by  the  War.  His  war  poems  describe  not  the 
great  battles  but  minor  incidents  which  bring  out  the 
human  qualities  of  the  participants  in  that  tremendous 
conflict.  What  more  could  any  soldier  say  of  a  faithful 
comrade-in-arms  than  Whitman  says  of  an  unknown  sol- 
dier killed  in  Virginia? 


378  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

AS  TOILSOME  I  WANDER'D  VIRGINIA'S  WOODS 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods, 

To  the  music  of  rustling  leaves  kick'd  by  my  feet  (for  't  was 

autumn), 

I  mark'd  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  grave  of  a  soldier; 
Mortally  wounded  he  and  buried  on  the   retreat   (easily  all 

could  I  understand), 
The  halt  of  a  mid-day  hour,  when  up !  no  time  to  lose — yet 

this  sign  left, 

On  a  tablet  scrawl'd  and  nail'd  on  the  tree  by  the  grave, 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

Long,  long  I  muse,  then  on  my  way  go  wandering, 

Many  a  changeful  season  to  follow,  and  many  a  scene  of  life, 

Yet   at  times   through   changeful   season   and   scene,   abrupt, 

alone,  or  in  the  crowded  street, 

Comes  before  me  the  unknown  soldier's  grave,  comes  the  in- 
scription rude  in  Virginia's  woods, 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892") 

At  his  best  Whitman  does  not  suffer  from  comparison 
with  poets  who  use  only  the  regular  metrical  forms.  With 
other  poems  expressing  a  poet's  attitude  toward  death — 
Tennyson's  "Crossing  the  Bar,"  Browning's  "Prospice," 
and  Sara  Teasdale's  "The  Lamp" — one  should  compare 
Whitman's  "Barest  Thou  Now,  O  Soul"  and  other  poems 
in  free  verse  to  be  quoted  later  in  the  chapter.  In  earlier 
years  Whitman  had  written: 

Has  any  one  supposed  it  lucky  to  be  born  ? 
I  hasten  to  inform  him  or  her  it  is  just  as  lucky  to  die,  and  I 
know  it. 


FREE  VERSE  379 

All  goes  onward  and  outward,  nothing  collapses, 
And  to   die  is   different   from   what   any   one   supposed,   and 
luckier. 

Whitman's  youthful  optimism  we  may  attribute  to  his 
extraordinary  physical  vitality;  but  the  optimism  of  the 
chronic  invalid  that  he  became  after  the  Civil  War  is  not 
easy  to  explain. 

BAREST  THOU  NOW,  O  SOUL 

Barest  thou  now,  O  soul, 

Walk  out  with  me  toward  the  unknown  region, 

Where  neither  ground  is  for  the  feet  nor  any  path  to  follow? 

No  map  there,  nor  guide, 

Nor  voice  sounding,  nor  touch  of  human  hand, 
Nor  face  with  blooming  flesh,  nor  lips,  nor  eyes,  are  in  that 
land. 

I  know  it  not,  O  Soul, 

Nor  dost  thou,  all  is  a  blank  before  us, 

All  waits  undream'd  of  in  that  region,  that  inaccessible  land. 

Till  when  the  ties  loosen, 

All  but  the  ties  eternal,  Time  and  Space, 

Nor  darkness,  gravitation,  sense,  nor  any  bounds  bounding  us. 

Then  we  burst  forth,  we  float, 
In  Time  and  Space,  O  soul,  prepared  for  them, 
Equal,  equipt  at  last  (O  joy!  O  Fruit  of  all!)  them  to  fulfil, 
O  soul. 

Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892') 

The  leading  contemporary  poets  use  free  verse  much 
less  than  is  generally  supposed.    Three  of  the  best  known 


380  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

American  poets,  Robinson,  Frost,  and  Lindsay,  rarely  or 
never  use  it.  Sandburg  and  Masters  use  free  verse  a 
great  deal,  but  only  Sandburg,  of  our  major  contempo- 
rary poets,  seems  to  use  it  to  the  exclusion  of  regular 
forms.  Among  latter-day  English  poets  only  Wilfrid 
Wilson  Gibson  and  the  late  William  Ernest  Henley  have 
used  free  verse  to  any  great  extent.  Henley's  free  verse 
resembles  Arnold's  rather  than  Whitman's ;  in  fact,  its 
rhythm  is  almost  invariably  iambic. 

MARGARITAE  SORORI 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies: 

And  from  the  west, 

Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended, 

Lingers  as  in  content, 

There  falls  on  the  old,  gray  city 

An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 

A  shining  peace. 

The  smoke  ascends 

In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.    The  spires 

Shine  and  are  changed.    The  lark  sings  on.    The  sun, 

Closing  his  benediction, 

Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 

Thrills  with  a  sense  of  the  triumphing  night — 

Night  with  her  train  of  stars 

And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing! 

My  task  accomplish'd  and  the  long  day  done, 

My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 

Some  late  lark  singing, 


FREE  VERSE  381 

Let  me  be  gather'd  to  the  quiet  west, 
The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 
Death. 

William  Ernest  Henley  (1849-1908} 

j.'he  free  verse  of  Masters  and  Sandburg  resembles  that 
of  Whitman,  whereas  the  free  verse  of  Amy  Lowell  and 
"H.D."  (Mrs.  Richard  Aldington)  resembles  rather  the 
French  vers  libre  poets  who  imitated  Whitman.  Thus, 
whether  direct  or  indirect,  Whitman's  influence  upon  con- 
temporary writers  of  free  verse  is  very  great.  In  style 
and  subject  matter  he  has  influenced  nearly  all  contem- 
porary American  poets.  It  was  he  who  taught  them  to 
write  upon  American  themes  in  unconventional  language. 
He  taught  them  not  only  how  to  handle  free  verse  but 
also  how  to  paint  the  poetic  aspects  of  our  modern  urban 
and  industrial  life.  In  The  New  World  a  living  American 
poet,  Witter  Bynner,  has  written  the  following  tribute 
to  Whitman: 

Somebody  called  Walt  Whitman 

Dead! 

He  is  alive  instead, 

Alive  as  I  am.  When  I  lift  my  head, 

His  head  is  lifted.     When  his  brave  mouth  speaks, 

My  lips  contain  his  word.  And  when  his  rocker  creaks 

Ghostly  in  Camden,  there  I  sit  in  it  and  watch  my  hand  grow 

old 

And  take  upon  my  constant  lips  the  kiss  of  younger  truth  .  .  . 
It  is  my  joy  to  tell  and  to  be  told 
That  he  in  all  the  world  and  me, 
Cannot  be  dead, 

That  I,  in  all  the  world  and  him,  youth  after  youth 
Shall  lift  my  head. 


382  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

If  the  reader  has  mistaken  the  above  passage  for  free 
verse,  let  him  re-read  it  and  note  the  rime  scheme. 

An  excellent  recent  poem  in  free  verse  of  the  Whitman 
type  is  "Come,  Republic,"  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  of 
whom  we  shall  have  more  to  say  in  the  chapter  on  the 
Contemporary  Poets.  The  poem  was  published  in  1916, 
before  America  entered  the  World  War.  For  "the  A.  D. 
Bloods,"  see  the  Spoon  River  Anthology. 

COME,  REPUBLIC 

Come !    United  States  of  America, 

And  you  one  hundred  million  souls,  O  Republic, 

Throw  out  your  chests,  lift  up  your  heads, 

And  walk  with  a  soldier's  stride. 

Quit  burning  up  for  money  alone. 

Quit  slouching  and  dawdling, 

And  dreaming  and  moralising. 

Quit  idling  about  the  streets,  like  the  boy 

In  the  village,  who  pines  for  the  city. 

Root  out  the  sinister  secret  societies, 

And  the  clans  that  stick  together  for  office, 

And  the  good  men  who  care  nothing  for  liberty, 

But  would  run  you,  O  Republic,  as  a  household  is  run. 

It  is  time,  Republic,  to  get  some  class, 

It  is  time  to  harden  your  muscles, 

And  to  clear  your  eyes  in  the  cold  water  of  Reality, 

And  to  tighten  your  nerves. 

It  is  time  to  think  what  Nature  means, 

And  to  consult  Nature, 

When  your  soul,  as  you  call  it,  calls  to  you 

To  follow  principle ! 

It  is  time  to  snuff  out  the  A.  D.  Bloods. 

It  is  time  to  lift  yourself,  O  Republic, 

From  the  street  corners  of  Spoon  River. 


FREE  VERSE  383 

Do  you  wish  to  survive, 

And  to  count  in  the  years  to  come? 

Then  do  what  the  plow-boys  did  in  sixty-one, 

Who  left  the  fields  for  the  camp, 

And  tightened  their  nerves  and  hardened  their  arms 

Till  the  day  they  left  the  camp  for  the  fields 

The  bravest,  readiest,  clearest-eyed 

Straight-walking  men  in  the  world, 

And  symbolical  of  a  Republic 

That  is  worthy  the  name! 

If  you,  Republic,  had  kept  the  faith 

Of  a  culture  all  your  own, 

And  a  spiritual  independence, 

And  a  freedom  large  and  new. 

If  you  had  not  set  up  a  Federal  judge  in  China, 

And  scrambled  for  place  in  the  Orient, 

And  stolen  the  Philippine  Islands, 

And  mixed  in  the  business  of  Europe, 

Three  thousand  miles  of  water  east, 

And  seven  thousand  west 

Had  kept  your  hands  untainted,  free 

For  a  culture  all  your  own ! 

But  while  you  were  fumbling,  and  while  you  were  dreaming 

As  the  boy  in  the  village  dreams  of  the  city 

You  were  doing  something  worse: 

You  were  imitating! 

You  came  to  the  city  and  aped  the  swells, 

And  tried  to  enter  their  set! 

You  strained  your  Fate  to  their  fate, 

And  borrowed  the  mood  to  live  their  life! 

And  here  you  are  in  the  game,  Republic, 

But  not  prepared  to  play ! 

But  you  did  it. 

And  the  water  east  and  water  west 


384  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Are  no  longer  your  safeguard: 

They  are  now  your  danger  and  difficulty ! 

And  you  must  live  the  life  you  started  to  imitate 

In  spite  of  these  perilous  waters. 

For  they  keep  you  now  from  being  neutral — 

For  you  are  not  neutral,  Republic, 

You  only  pretend  to  be. 

You  are  not  free,  independent,  brave, 

You  are  shackled,  cowardly 

For  what  could  happen  to  you  overnight 

In  the  Orient, 

If  you  stood  with  your  shoulders  up, 

And  were  Neutral! 

Suppose  you  do  it,  Republic. 

Get  some  class, 

Throw  out  your  chest,  lift  up  your  head, 

Be  a  ruler  in  the  world, 

And  not  a  hermit  in  regimentals  with  a  flint-lock. 

Colossus  with  one  foot  in  Europe, 

And  one  in  China, 

Quit  looking  between  your  legs  for  the  re-appearance 

Of  the  star  of  Bethlehem — 

Stand  up  and  be  a  man! 

Edgar  Lee  Masters  (1869-  ) 

Carl  Sandburg's  best  known  poem,  "Chicago,"  is  quoted 
in  the  following  chapter.  The  poem  which  we  quote  here 
is  a  cutting  satire  upon  a  certain  type  of  American 
millionaire. 

A  FENCE 

Now  the  stone  house  on  the  lake  front  is  finished  and  the 

workmen  are  beginning  the  fence. 
The  palings  are  made  of  iron  bars  with  steel  points  that  can 

stab  the  life  out  of  any  man  who  falls  on  them. 


FREE  VERSE  385 

As  a  fence,  it  is  a  masterpiece,  and  will  shut  off  the  rabble 
and  all  vagabonds  and  hungry  men  and  all  wandering 
children  looking  for  a  place  to  play. 

Passing  through  the  bars  and  over  the  steel  points  will  go 
nothing  except  Death  and  the  Rain  and  To-morrow. 

Carl  Sandburg  (1878-  ) 

On  the  part  of  the  best  contemporary  writers  of  free 
verse,  there  is  a  tendency  toward  a  greater  regularity  of 
form.  It  is  felt  that  free  verse  is  too  easy  to  write  and 
that  its  facility  betrays  the  poet  into  diffuseness  and 
feebleness.  Hence  the  attempt  to  define  free  verse  and 
to  lay  down  certain  laws  for  its  composition.  The 
Imagists  define  free  verse  as  "a  verse-form  based  upon 
cadence."  One  of  the  rules  for  the  writing  of  poetry  laid 
down  by  the  Imagists  is,  in  part :  "To  create  new  rhythms 
— as  the  expressions  of  new  moods — and  not  to  copy  old 
rhythms,  which  merely  echo  old  moods.  ...  In  poetry,  a 
new  cadence  means  a  new  idea."  The  Imagists  insist  that 
the  unit  is  not  the  foot  or  the  line  but  the  strophe,  which 
may  comprise  the  whole  poem  or  only  a  part  of  it.  Each 
strophe  is  conceived  as  a  circle,  a  departure  and  a  return. 
The  following  poem  by  John  Gould  Fletcher  shows  this 
tendency  toward  greater  regularity  of  form. 


EXIT 

Thus  would  I  have  it: 
So  should  it  be  for  me, 
The  scene  of  my  departure. 
Cliffs   ringed  with   scarlet, 
And  the  sea  pounding 


386  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  pale  brown  sand 
Miles  after  miles; 
And  then,  afar  off, 
White  on  the  horizon, 
One  ship   with  sails   full-set 
Passing  slowly  and  serenely, 
Like  a  proud  burst  of  music, 
To  fortunate  islands. 

John  Gould  Fletcher  (1886-  ) 

Free  verse  is  a  hybrid  form;  it  is  the  result  of  an  at- 
tempt to  explore  the  no  man's  land  which  divides  prose 
from  verse.  Of  late  years  there  has  been  much  confusion  of 
the  arts.  Music,  poetry,  and  painting  have  all  overstepped 
their  traditional  boundaries.  Some  of  the  later  poets, 
not  satisfied  with  free  verse,  have  borrowed  from  the 
French  a  form  called  "polyphonic  prose."  This  form, 
however,  differs  even  less  than  free  verse  from  what  used 
to  be  called  prose  poetry  or  poetic  prose.  Mr.  Patter- 
son, in  his  excellent  study,  The  Rhythm  of  Prose,  states 
his  conviction  that  the  rhythm  of  free  verse  is  not  that 
of  poetry  but  of  prose — "spaced  prose,"  he  calls  it.  In 
other  words,  free  verse  is,  in  the  main,  only  a  new  name 
for  a  very  old  thing,  poetic  or  impassioned  prose. 

The  bulk  of  current  free  verse  is,  like  the  great  ma- 
jority of  rimed  poems  printed  in  our  newspapers  and 
magazines,  not  poetry  at  all;  it  is  not  even  good  prose. 
There  are,  however,  poems  in  free  verse  which  challenge 
comparison  with  anything  that  has  been  said  or  sung  in 
rime.  This  anomalous  form  seems  especially  effective  in 
poems  which  attempt  to  describe  the  complex  industrial 
civilization  of  our  time.  Skyscrapers,  railroads,  and  cot- 


FREE  VERSE  387 

ton  mills  do  not  lend  themselves  readily  to  conventional 
poetic  treatment.  Theoretically,  free  verse  permits  the 
writer  to  use  all  the  resources  of  both  prose  and  poetry 
in  his  effort  to  say  what  has  never  been  effectively  said 
before.  Free  verse  is  least  suited  to  lyric  poetry;  it  is 
nearer  the  prose  level  and  farther  from  the  song  than 
any  other  type  of  poetry.  It  is,  however,  excellent  in 
realistic  narrative  and  descriptive  poetry. 


CHAPTER  XI 

POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME 

/  Cynics  have  said  since  the  first  outpourings  of  men's  hearts, 
"There  is  nothing  new  in  art;  there  are  no  new  subjects." 
But  the  very  reverse  is  true.  There  are  no  old  subjects;  every 
subject  is  new  as  soon  as  it  has  been  transformed  by  the 
imagination  of  the  poet. — Joel  Elias  Spingarn:  "Creative 
Criticism" 

t 

UP  to  this  point  we  have  studied  poems  either  accord- 
ing to  metrical  form,  as  in  the  sonnet,  or  according  to 
type,  as  in  the  song.  There  are,  of  course,  many  other 
ways  of  studying  poetry,  and  each  of  them  has  its  spe- 
cial merits.  The  method  employed  in  this  chapter, 
though  seldom  used,  has  decided  advantages.  A  very  illu- 
minating comparison  can  be  made  of  what  poets  in  vari- 
ous countries  and  epochs  have  found  to  say  of  such  peren- 
nially interesting  subjects  as  nature,  patriotism,  love, 
war,  death,  and  immortality.  The  comparative  test  is 
also  an  excellent  test  to  apply  to  the  work  of  a  poet  whose 
rank  we  wish  to  determine.  After  reading  the  poems  con- 
tained in  this  chapter,  the  reader  should  decide  whether, 
in  his  estimation,  the  American  poets  come  up  to  the  level 
of  the  British,  and  whether  the  present-day  poets  of 
either  country  measure  up  to  older  writers  like  Words- 
worth and  Poe.  We  shall  consider  four  widely  dif- 

388 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  389 

fering  general  themes:  Death,  Abraham  Lincoln,  Nature, 
and  the  City. 

"Our  sweetest  songs,'*  wrote  Shelley,  "are  those  that 
tell  of  saddest  thought."  Melancholy,  said  Poe,  is  "the 
most  legitimate  of  all  the  poetical  tones."  Death  seemed 
to  Poe  most  poetical  when  it  "most  closely  allies  itself  to 
Beauty;  the  death,  then,"  reasoned  Poe,  "of  a  beautiful 
woman  is,  unquestionably,  the  most  poetical  topic  in  the 
world;  and  equally  is  it  beyond  doubt  that  the  lips  best 
suited  for  such  topic  are  those  of  a  bereaved  lover." 
Here,  in  reality,  Poe  has  combined  two  themes,  love  and 
death.  The  death  of  a  lovely  woman  is  the  theme  of 
nearly  all  of  Poe's  best  poems,  "The  Raven,"  "Annabel 
Lee,"  "Ulalume,"  "Lenore,"  and  "The  Sleeper." 
Although  "The  Raven"  is  the  best  known  of  these,  "The 
Sleeper"  was,  in  Poe's  estimation,  a  greater  poem.  "In 
the  higher  qualities  of  poetry,"  said  he,  "it  is  better  than 
'The  Raven' ;  but  there  is  not  one  man  in  a  million  who 
could  be  brought  to  agree  with  me  in  this  opinion." 

THE  SLEEPER 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon   the  quiet  mountain  top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave; 
Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 


390  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  ruin  moulders  into  rest; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see !  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  Beauty  sleeps ! — and  lo !  where  lies 
Irene,  with  her  Destinies ! 

Oh,  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right — 
This  window  open  to  the  night? 
The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top, 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop — 
The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 
Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 
And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully — so  fearfully — 
Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall! 
Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear? 
Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees ! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor !  strange  thy  dress ! 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness ! 

The  lady  sleeps !     Oh,  may  her  sleep 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 
I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 
While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by! 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  391 

My  love,  she  sleeps !    Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep ! 
Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep ! 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 
For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold — 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 
And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls, 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals — 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin! 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within. 

Edgar  Allan  Foe  (1809-184-9) 

The  death  of  a  beautiful  woman  is  a  theme  which,  like 
most  others,  may  be  treated  in  narrative  and  dramatic  as 
well  as  in  lyric  poetry.  It  may  also  be  employed  in  prose 
fiction  or  in  sculpture  and  painting,  as  every  one  who 
has  seen  Millais's  "Ophelia"  will  recall.  In  fiction  one 
thinks  of  the  beautiful  Amy  Robsart  in  Scott's  Kenil- 
worth,  of  Eustacia  Vye  in  Hardy's  Return  of  the 
Native,  of  Maggie  Tulliver  in  George  Eliot's  Mill  on 
the  Floss,  and  of  Zenobia  in  Hawthorne's  Blithedale 
Romance.  In  Shakespeare's  plays  one  recalls  the  deaths 
of  Juliet,  Desdemona,  Cleopatra,  and  Ophelia.  The 
student  should  compare  the  following  poems  as  to  sin- 
cerity of  feeling,  beauty  of  expression,  and  point  of  view. 
He  will  find  it  worth  while  also  to  look  up  other  notable 
poems  on  the  same  general  theme,  such  as  Lamb's 


392  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"Hester";  Browning's  "My  Last  Duchess,"  "Evelyn 
Hope,"  and  "Porphyria's  Lover";  Tennyson's  "Lady  of 
Shalott"  and  "Lancelot  and  Elaine";  Pope's  "Elegy  to 
the  Memory  of  an  Unfortunate  Lady";  Landor's  "The 
Death  of  Artemidora" ;  Hood's  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs" ; 
and  Rossetti's  "The  Blessed  Damozel,"  which  was  inspired 
by  "The  Raven." 

In  "Highland  Mary"  and  "To  Mary  in  Heaven"  Burns 
celebrated  a  woman  who  is  now  almost  as  famous  as 
Dante's  Beatrice  and  Petrarch's  Laura.  Yet  little  is 
known  of  Mary  Campbell  except  that  she  came  from  the 
Scottish  Highlands  and  was  probably  a  nurserymaid. 
The  story  of  her  romantic  parting  with  the  poet  is  fa- 
miliar. They  stood  on  opposite  banks  of  a  little  brook, 
exchanged  vows,  and  parted  never  to  meet  again,  for 
five  months  later  Highland  Mary  was  dead.  Drumlie 
means  muddy ;  aft ,  often ;  sae,  so. 

HIGHLAND  MARY 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,   and   fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 
There  Simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  393 

The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursel's  asunder; 
But  oh!  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  ha'e  kiss'd  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

Robert  Burns  (1759-1796) 

If  little  is  known  of  Highland  Mary,  less  still  is  defi- 
nitely known  concerning  the  woman  whom,  under  the 
name  of  Lucy,  Wordsworth  celebrated  in  three  or  four 
beautiful  lyrics.  The  second  stanza  of  the  following  poem 
is  one  of  the  finest  passages  in  Wordsworth's  poems. 

SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTRODDEN  WAYS 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love: 


394  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye ! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me ! 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 

A  German  critic  of  the  following  poem  by  Landor  is 
said  to  have  remarked  that  one  night  is  far  too  little  to 
consecrate  to  grief  for  a  lost  sweetheart ;  why  not  a  life- 
time? But  one  cannot  judge  of  the  sincerity  of  a  man's 
sorrow  by  the  extravagance  of  his  language.  In  poetry, 
as  everywhere  else,  he  who  says  less  than  he  feels  is  surest 
to  convince  us  of  his  sincerity.  Rose  Aylmer,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Baron  Aylmer,  died  in  India  in  1800. 

ROSE  AYLMER 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose   Aylmer,    whom   these    wakeful   eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Walter  Savage  Landor  (1773-1864) 

Among  the  shorter  poems  of  Lord  Byron,  few  have  been 
more  admired  than  the  following  stanzas : 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  395 

OH!  SNATCH'D  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY'S  BLOOM 

Oh !  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 

But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 

Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom: 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 

Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 
And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 

And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread; 

Fond  wretch!  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead! 

Away !  we  know  that  tears  a.re  vain, 

That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress: 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain? 

Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 

And  thou — who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 

George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  Byron  (1788-1824) 

Unlike  the  preceding  selections,  Matthew  Arnold's 
"Requiescat"  is  not  a  love  poem.  The  Latin  title  means 
May  she  rest  in  peace ! 

REQUIESCAT 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 

And  never  a  spray  of  yew! 
In  quiet  she  reposes; 

Ah,  would  that  I  did  too! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 


396  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 

In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 
But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 

And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd,  ample  spirit, 

It   flutter'd    and    fail'd   for   breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  death. 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888) 

The  poems  we  have  quoted  are  all  lyrics.  Whittier's 
"Telling  the  Bees"  is  narrative  and  idyllic.  The  super- 
stition that,  when  a  member  of  the  family  dies,  the  bees 
will  fly  away  unless  they  are  told  of  it,  is  found  in  rural 
districts  in  New  England  and  the  West.  The  New  Eng- 
land summer  landscape  is  here  described  as  skilfully  as 
are  the  winter  scenes  in  "Snow-Bound." 

TELLING  THE  BEES 

Here  is  the  place;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed-o'errun, 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  397 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow  and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed, — 

To  love,  a  year; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now, — the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before, — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door, — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  and  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 

Trembling,  I  listened:  the  summer  sun 
Had  the  chill  of  snow; 


398  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 
Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day: 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low;  on  the  doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sang  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on: — 
"Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence! 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone!" 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (1807-1892) 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay's  "Elegy,"  from  Second  April, 
is  one  of  a  group  of  beautiful  poems  dedicated  to  the 
memory  of  a  Vassar  friend.  Does  it  suffer  from  compari- 
son with  the  poems  which  precede  it? 

I 
ELEGY 

Let  them  bury  your  big  eyes 
In  the  secret  earth  securely, 
Your  thin  fingers,  and  your  fair, 
Soft,  indefinite-colored  hair, — 
All  of  these  in  some  way,  surely, 
From  the  secret  earth  shall  rise; 
Not  for  these  I  sit  and  stare, 
Broken  and  bereft  completely; 
Your  young  flesh  that  sat  so  neatly 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  399 

On  your  little  bones  will  sweetly 
Blossom  in  the  air. 

But  your  voice, — never  the  rushing 

Of  a  river  underground, 

Not  the  rising  of  the  wind 

In  the  trees  before  the  rain, 

Not  the  woodcock's  watery  call, 

Not  the  note  the  white-throat  utters, 

Not  the  feet  of  children  pushing 

Yellow  leaves  along  the  gutters 

In  the  blue  and  bitter  fall, 

Shall  content  my  musing  mind 

For  the  beauty  of  that  sound 

That  in  no  new  way  at  all 

Ever  will  be  heard  again. 

Sweetly  through  the  sappy  stalk 
Of  the  vigorous  weed, 
Holding  all  it  held  before, 
Cherished  by  the  faithful  sun, 
On  and  on  eternally 
Shall  your  altered  fluid  run, 
Bud  and  bloom  and  go  to  seed; 
But  your  singing  days  are  done; 
But  the  music  of  your  talk 
Never  shall  the  chemistry 
Of  the  secret  earth  restore. 
All  your  lovely  words  are  spoken. 
Once  the  ivory  box  is  broken, 
Beats  the  golden  bird  no  more. 

Edna  St.    Vincent   Millay   (1892-  ) 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  although  many  beautiful 
short  lyrics  have  been  inspired  by  the  death  of  a  woman, 
the  great  English  elegies  all  express  a  poet's  grief  for  a 


400  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

lost  friend  of  his  own  sex.  By  common  consent,  the  three 
greatest  English  elegies  are  Milton's  "Lycidas,"  occa- 
sioned by  the  death  of  a  college  friend,  Edward  King; 
Shelley's  "Adonais,"  a  memorial  to  the  poet  Keats ;  and 
Tennyson's  In  Memoriam,  inspired  by  the  death  of  his 
friend,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam.  To  these  three  a  fourth 
is  often  added  in  Matthew  Arnold's  "Thyrsis,"  which 
laments  the  death  of  the  poet  Clough.  Other  notable 
poems  of  the  same  type  are  Spenser's  "Astrophel,"  an 
elegy  upon  Sir  Philip  Sidney;  Tennyson's  "Ode  on  the 
Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington" ;  Swinburne's  "Ave 
atque  Vale,"  an  elegy  on  the  French  poet  Baudelaire; 
and  William  Watson's  "Lachrimas  Musarum,"  an  elegy 
on  Tennyson.  The  two  greatest  American  elegies  are 
Emerson's  "Threnody,"  the  subject  of  which  is  his  own 
son,  and  Whitman's  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard 
Bloom'd,"  an  elegy  on  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Abraham  Lincoln  is  the  subject  of  more  great  poems 
than  any  other  American.  In  fact,  no  Englishman,  if  we 
except  the  Celtic  and  possibly  unhistorical  Arthur,  has 
been  made  the  subject  of  so  many  excellent  poems.  Lin- 
coln's poetic  fame  is  partly  due  to  his  tragic  death  but 
most  of  all  to  the  conviction  that  he  is  the  most  thor- 
oughly American  of  all  our  great  men.  "He  is,"  said 
Emerson,  "the  true  history  of  the  American  people  in  his 
time."  Born  in  Kentucky  of  Virginian  parents,  Lincoln 
grew  up  in  the  Middle  West,  where  Northern  and 
Southern  immigrants  were  being  remolded  into  Ameri- 
cans. Maurice  Thompson,  an  ex-Confederate  soldier 
who,  like  Lincoln,  removed  from  the  South  to  the  Middle 
West,  wrote  of  him, 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  401 

He  was  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 
The  thrall,  the  master,  all  of  us  in  one. 

The  story  of  Lincoln's  rise  from  the  social  level  of  the 
"poor  white  trash"  to  the  presidency  is,  to  quote  Henry 
Watterson,  an  "epic  in  homespun."  Speaking  of  Lin- 
coln's life,  Brand  Whitlock  says,  "Rightly  told,  it  is  the 
epic  of  America."  With  the  exception  of  Lee,  Lincoln  is 
the  one  supremely  great  figure  brought  forward  by  the 
Civil  War ;  and  the  Civil  War  is,  as  we  have  said  before, 
the  one  great  crisis  in  our  history.  Lincoln's  death,  com- 
ing immediately  after  Appomattox,  is  as  dramatic  as  that 
of  Julius  Caesar.  Lincoln,  moreover,  is  the  most  many- 
sided  man  of  our  great  men.  There  is  something  in  him 
which  appeals  to  every  man.  He  was,  as  a  Southern  poet, 
Walter  Malone,  sums  him  up  in  a  poem  of  only  four  lines : 

A  blend  of  mirth  and  sadness,  smiles  and  tears ; 
A  quaint  knight-errant  of  the  pioneers; 
A  homely  hero  born  of  star  and  sod; 
A  Peasant  Prince;  a  Masterpiece  of  God. 

Lincoln,  for  some  reason,  has  played  only  a  small  part 
in  drama  and  fiction.  The  best  of  the  novels  which  de- 
scribe him  are  The  Crisis,  by  Winston  Churchill;  The 
Gray  sons,  by  Edward  Eggleston;  and  A  Man  for  the 
Ages,  by  Irving  Bacheller.  The  only  good  Lincoln  play 
is  by  John  Drinkwater,  a  living  English  poet  and 
dramatist.  In  American  poetry,  however,  Lincoln's  part 
is  a  very  large  one.  The  greatest  of  all  Lincoln  poems 
is  Walt  Whitman's  "When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard 
Bloom'd,"  which  Swinburne  called  "the  most  sonorous 


402  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

anthem  ever  chanted  in  the  church  of  the  world."  Since 
this  elegy  is  unfortunately  too  long  for  quotation,  we 
give  one  of  Whitman's  shorter  poems  on  Lincoln.  Owing 
to  the  fact  that  "O  Captain!  my  Captain"  is  written  in 
rime,  it  is  much  better  known  than  Whitman's  more  char- 
acteristic poems. 

O  CAPTAIN !  MY  CAPTAIN ! 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is 

won, 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 

Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning; 
Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 

My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 

The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won; 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  403 

But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892) 

William  Cullen  Bryant  was  among  the  first  prominent 
Easterners  to  divine  the  greatness  of  the  homely  Western 
statesman.  Bryant  presided  at  Lincoln's  Cooper  Insti- 
tute address  in  February,  1860,  and  was  so  much  im- 
pressed that  in  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  of  which  he 
was  editor,  he  advocated  Lincoln's  nomination  for  the 
presidency.  On  Lincoln's  assassination  he  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing simple  and  noble  tribute  to  the  martyred  president. 

THE  DEATH  OF  LINCOLN 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 

Gentle  and  merciful  and  just! 
Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 

The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust! 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand, 

Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 
And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 

That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done;  the  bond  are  free: 
We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave, 

Whose  proudest  monument  shall  be 
The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right. 

William  Cullen  Bryant   (1794-1878} 


404  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  justest  poetic  estimate  of  Lincoln's  character  and 
genius  is  found  in  Lowell's  "Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard 
Commemoration"  in  July,  1865.  We  quote: 

.   .   .  Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 

With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  cannot  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 

Repeating  us  by  rote: 
For  him  her  Old-World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 

And  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 

But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  sidll, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 

His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 

Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 

A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind; 

Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  405 

Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 
And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he: 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes ; 

These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame. 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 

New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American.  .  .  . 

Although  there  are  important  poems  on  Lincoln  by 
Holmes,  Whittier,  Stoddard,  Sill,  and  Bret  Harte,  it 
was  not  until  the  last  decade  or  two  that  Lincoln  came 
fully  into  his  own.  There  is  scarcely  a  living  American 
poet  of  importance  who  has  not  written  a  poem  about 
Lincoln.  The  list  includes  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson,  John  Gould  Fletcher,  Percy  Mac- 


406  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

kaye,  Hermann  Hagedorn,  Vachel  Lindsay,  James  Oppen- 
heim,  Edwin  Markham,  Witter  Bynner,  Bliss  Carman, 
Arthur  Guiterman,  Clinton  Scollard,  Harriet  Monroe, 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson,  Frank  Dempster  Sherman, 
and  Carl  Sandburg.  Most  of  their  Lincoln  poems  can 
be  found  in  Mary  Wright-Davis's  interesting  anthology, 
The  Book  of  Lincoln. 

The  finest  recent  tribute  to  Lincoln  is  by  Edwin  Arling- 
ton Robinson.  The  poem  will  be  clearer  if  the  reader 
will  remember  that  the  speaker  is  not  the  poet  but  one  of 
the  many  persons  who,  until  after  the  assassination,  did 
not  recognize  Lincoln's  greatness.  So  few  of  Lincoln's 
contemporaries  divined  his  greatness  during  his  lifetime 
that  Edward  Rowland  Sill  has  well  asked: 

Were  there  no  crowns  on  earth, 
No  evergreens  to  wreathe  a  hero's  wreath, 
That  he  must  pass  beyond  the  gates  of  death, 

Our  hero,  our  slain  hero,  to  be  crowned? 

THE  MASTER 

A  flying  word  from  here  and  there 

Had  sown  the  name  at  which  we  sneered, 

But  soon  the  name  was  everywhere, 

To  be  reviled  and  then  revered: 

A  presence  to  be  loved  and  feared, 

We  cannot  hide  it,  or  deny 

That  we,  the  gentlemen  who  jeered, 

May  be  forgotten  by  and  by. 

He  came  when  days  were  perilous 

And  hearts  of  men  were  sore  beguiled; 

And  having  made  his  note  of  us, 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  407 

He  pondered  and  was  reconciled. 

Was  ever  master  yet  so  mild 

As  he,  and  so  untamable? 

We  doubted,  even  when  he  smiled, 

Not  knowing  what  he  knew  so  well. 

He  knew  that  undeceiving  fate 

Would  shame  us  whom  he  served  unsought; 

He  knew  that  he  must  wince  and  wait — 

The  jest  of  those  for  whom  he  fought; 

He  knew  devoutly  what  he  thought 

Of  us  and  of  our  ridicule; 

He  knew  that  we  must  all  be  taught 

Like  little  children  in  a  school. 

We  gave  a  glamour  to  the  task 

That  he  encountered  and  saw  through, 

But  little  of  us  did  he  ask, 

And  little  did  we  ever  do. 

And  what  appears  if  we  review 

The  season  when  we  railed  and  chaffed? 

It  is  the  face  of  one  who  knew 

That  we  were  learning  while  we  laughed. 

The  face  that  in  our  vision  feels 
Again  the  venom  that  we  flung, 
Transfigured  to  the  world  reveals 
The  vigilance  to  which  we  clung. 
Shrewd,  hallowed,  harassed,  and  among 
The  mysteries   that  are   untold, 
The  face  we  see  was  never  young, 
Nor  could  it  wholly  have  been  old. 

For  he,  to  whom  we  had  applied 
Our  shopman's  test  of  age  and  worth, 
Was  elemental  when  he  died, 


408  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

As  he  was  ancient  at  his  birth: 
The   saddest   among  kings   of  earth, 
Bowed  with  a  galling  crown,  this  man 
Met  rancor  with  a  cryptic  mirth, 
Laconic — and   Olympian. 

The  love,  the  grandeur,  and  the  fame 
Are  bounded  by  the  world  alone; 
The  calm,  the  smouldering,  and  the  flame 
Of  awful  patience  were  his  own: 
With  him  they  are  forever  flown 
Past  all  our   fond  self-shadowings, 
Wherewith  we  cumber  the  Unknown 
As  with  inept,  Icarian  wings. 

For  we  were  not  as  other  men: 
'Twas  ours  to  soar  and  his  to  see. 
But  we  are  coming  down  again, 
And  we  shall  come  down  pleasantly; 
Nor  shall  we  longer  disagree 
On  what  it  is  to  be  sublime, 
But  flourish  in  our  perigee 
And  have  one  Titan  at  a  time. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  (1869-  ) 

So  well  established  is  Lincoln  today  as  a  world  figure 
that  Lloyd  George,  placing  him  ahead  of  Gladstone,  Bis- 
marck, and  Cavour,  has  called  him  "the  greatest  states- 
man of  the  nineteenth  century."  The  war  with  Germany 
caused  us  to  realize  Lincoln's  greatness  as  we  had  never 
realized  it  before.  During  the  war  we  felt  that,  as  Arthur 
Guiterman  expressed  it, 

Here  truth  must  triumph,  honour  must  prevail: 
The  nation  Lincoln  died  for  cannot  fail. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  409 

One  of  the  best  poems  occasioned  by  the  war  against 
Germany  is  Vachel  Lindsay's  "Abraham  Lincoln  Walks 
at  Midnight."  Lindsay's  home  is  in  Springfield,  Illinois, 
where  Lincoln  practiced  law  until  his  election  to  the  presi- 
dency. The  poem  was  written  in  1914,  nearly  three  years 
before  America  entered  the  war ;  and  it  reflects  our  first 
feeling  that  the  war  was  the  result  of  imperialistic  ambi- 
tions on  both  sides. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  WALKS  AT  MIDNIGHT 

(In  Springfield,  Illinois) 

It  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 
That  here  at  midnight,  in  our  little  town 
A  mourning  figure  walks,  and  will  not  rest, 
Near  the  old  court-house   pacing  up   and  down, 

Or  by  his  homestead,  or  in  shadowed  yards 
He  lingers  where  his  children  used  to  play, 
Or  through  the  market,  on  the  well-worn  stones 
He  stalks  until  the  dawn-stars  burn  away. 

A  bronzed,  lank  man !     His  suit  of  ancient  black, 
A  famous  high  top-hat  and  plain  worn  shawl 
Make  him  the  quaint  great  figure  that  men  love, 
The  prairie-lawyer,  master  of  us  all. 

He  cannot  sleep  upon  his  hillside  now. 
He  is  among  us : — as  in  times  before ! 
And  we  who  toss  and  lie  awake  for  long, 
Breathe  deep,  and  start,  to  see  him  pass  the  door. 

His  head  is  bowed.     He  thinks  of  men  and  kings, 
Yea,  when  the  sick  world  cries,  how  can  he  sleep? 


410  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Too  many  peasants   fight,  they  know  not  why; 
Too  many  homesteads  in  black  terror  weep. 

The  sins  of  all  the  war-lords  burn  his  heart. 
He  sees  the  dreadnaughts   scouring  every  main. 
He  carries  on  his  shawl-wrapped  shoulders  now 
The  bitterness,  the  folly  and  the  pain. 

He  cannot  rest  until  a  spirit-dawn 
Shall  come: — the  shining  hope  of  Europe  free: 
A  league  of  sober  folk,  the  Workers'  Earth, 
Bringing   long   peace   to    Cornland,   Alp,   and   Sea. 

It  breaks  his  heart  that  things  must  murder  still, 
That  all  his  hours  of  travail  here  for  men 
Seem  yet  in  vain.     And  who  will  bring  white  peace 
That  he  may  sleep  upon  his  hill  again? 

Vachel  Lindsay  (1879-  ) 

In  the  last  analysis,  there  are  only  two  themes  in  all 
poetry,  man  and  his  environment.  Poems  which  deal  with 
one  part  of  man's  environment,  external  nature,  are  very 
numerous.  Poems  which  describe  man's  surroundings, 
country  and  city  alike,  interest  us  because  of  their  inti- 
mate relation  to  our  own  lives.  "In  our  life  alone  does 
Nature  live,"  said  Coleridge.  William  Watson  has  aptly 
expressed  the  same  idea  in  an  epigram : 

For  metaphors  of  man  we  search  the  skies, 
And  find  our  allegory  in  all  the  air. 

We  gaze  on  Nature  with  Narcissus'  eyes, 
Enamour'd  of  our  shadow  everywhere. 

Our  feeling  about  nature,  which  we  often  significantly 
spell  with  a  capital  letter,  is  a  distinctly  modern  thing. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  411 

Petrarch,  the  great  Italian  sonneteer  of  the  Renaissance, 
was  the  first  man  on  record  who  climbed  a  mountain  for 
pleasure;  but  it  is  not  until  the  eighteenth  century  that 
we  find,  in  the  poems  of  James  Thomson  and  Lady  Win- 
chilsea,  the  beginnings  of  modern  nature  poetry.  After 
"a  very  troublesome  journey  over  the  Alps"  in  1701, 
Addison  wrote,  "My  head  is  still  giddy  with  mountains 
and  precipices ;  and  you  cannot  imagine  how  much  I  am 
pleased  with  the  sight  of  a  plain!"  Gray,  after  a  similar 
journey  in  1739,  wrote  of  the  Alps,  "Not  a  precipice, 
not  a  torrent,  not  a  gliff,  but  is  pregnant  with  religion 
and  poetry." 

Although  there  are  many  beautiful  and  vivid  descrip- 
tions of  nature  in  the  poems  of  Gray,  Collins,  Cowper, 
and  Burns,  it  was  not  until  the  first  quarter  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  that  nature  poetry  came  into  its  own. 
Since  that  time  external  nature  has  been  a  stock  poetic 
theme;  and  even  today  a  poet's  sensitiveness  to  beauty 
is  too  often  judged  solely  by  his  response  to  beautiful 
landscapes.  Romantip  and  Victorian  literature  is 
peculiarly  rich  in  nature  poetry.  Scott's  Lady  of  the 
Lake  is  said  to  have  sent  tourists  by  the  thousand  to 
visit  the  Trossachs;  and  Byron's  descriptions  of  conti- 
nental scenes  in  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  were  so 
successful  that,  as  he  expressed  it,  he  awoke  one  morn- 
ing to  find  himself  famous.  The  poems  of  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  Landor,  Shelley,  Keats,  Tennyson,  Arnold, 
Browning,  Morris,  and  Swinburne  are  full  of  descrip- 
tions of  beautiful  landscapes.  These  lines  from  "A 
Garden  by  the  Sea,"  by  William  Morris,  are  unforget- 
table: 


412  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

I  know  a  little  garden-close, 
Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose, 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might 
From  dewy  morn  to  dewy  night, 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

The  greatest  nature  poet  of  all  time  is  William  Words- 
worth. No  other  poet  ever  observed  or  described  more 
accurately  or  more  magically  the  phenomena  of  nature. 
Nothing  escaped  him  that  could  be  seen,  heard,  or  in  any 
other  way  perceived.  At  the  same  time  Wordsworth  read 
more  into  nature  than  any  other  poet. 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

For  Wordsworth,  nature  held  the  answer  to  the  riddle  of 
existence,  as  it  did  for  Tennyson,  who  was  echoing  Words- 
worth when  he  wrote  the  following  suggestive  poem. 

FLOWER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson  (1809-1892) 

Wordsworth's  attitude  toward  nature  is  best  expressed 
in  his  "Tintern  Abbey,"  which,  though  written  in  blank 
verse,  has  the  qualities  of  a  great  ode.  To  Wordsworth, 
nature  is  a  delight,  a  comforter,  and  a  temple  where  one 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  413 

may  commune  with  the  Spirit  of  the  universe.  His  poetic 
creed  is  entwined  with  a  semi-pantheistic  conception  of 
nature. 

I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains  .  .  . 

.  .  .  well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Sometimes  the  work  of  the  nature  poet  tempts  a  com- 
parison with  that  of  the  landscape  painter;  and  it  is 
surprising  how  well  the  poem  bears  comparison  with 
the  picture.  One  of  Wordsworth's  greatest  poems  was 
suggested  by  a  painting  of  Sir  George  Beaumont.  Words- 
worth gives  two  pictures  of  Peele  Castle,  one  in  calm  and 
one  in  storm;  and  he  makes  each  picture  symbolic  of  a 
different  conception  of  life.  The  poet's  mood  is  colored 


414  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

by  his  grief  for  the  death  of  his  brother  John,  who  was  a 
sailor.    The  clumsy  title  is  characteristic  of  Wordsworth. 

ELEGIAC  STANZAS 

Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle,  in  a  Storm, 
Painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  them  rugged  pile ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee: 
I  saw  thee  every  day;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day ! 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  Image  still  was  there; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm!  it  seemed  no  sleep; 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings: 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  Things. 

Ah !  THEN,  if  mine  had  been  the  Painter's  hand, 
To  express  what  then  I  saw;  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet  s  dream; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  Pile, 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

Thou   shouldst  have   seemed   a  treasure-house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years;  a  chronicle  of  heaven; — 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  415 

Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  Picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 
Such  Picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made: 
And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 
A  stedfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betrayed. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, — 'tis  so  no  more; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control: 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanised  my  Soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 

A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been: 

The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old; 

This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend!  who  would  have  been  the  Friend, 

If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore, 

This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  'tis  a  passionate  Work ! — yet  wise  and  well, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here; 

That  Hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear! 

And  this  huge   Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

1  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 
Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time, 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 


416  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied;  for  'tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here. — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 

The  scientific  discoveries  of  Darwin  and  others  had  a 
marked  effect  upon  the  nature  poetry  of  the  Victorian 
period.  To  the  poets  it  seemed  that  science  was  robbing 
nature  of  its  poetry.  Keats,  in  an  earlier  period,  had 
thought  that  the  spectrum  analysis  spoiled  the  rainbow 
for  poetic  purposes.  Poe  wrote  in  his  "Sonnet — To 
Science" : 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities, 
How  should  we  love  thee?  .  .  . 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car? 
And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star? 
Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree? 

With  Tennyson  and  Arnold  the  effect  of  scientific  dis- 
coveries was  far  more  serious.  They  found  it  difficult 
to  believe  not  only  in  creatures  of  the  imagination  like 
elves  and  fairies,  but  even  in  the  God  whom  Wordsworth 
had  seen  everywhere  in  nature.  To  Tennyson,  mourning 
the  death  of  his  friend  Hallam,  it  seemed  for  a  time  im- 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  417 

possible  to  believe  in  God  or  personal  immortality. 
Nature,  to  which  Wordsworth  had  gone  for  consolation 
after  witnessing  the  horrors  of  the  French  Revolution, 
now  seemed  man's  enemy.  Darwin's  theory  of  evolution 
revealed  that  all  nature  was  at  war.  Tennyson's  In 
Memoriam  was  written  before  the  publication  in  1859  of 
The  Origin  of  Species,  but  science  had  already  begun 
to  ask  such  questions  as  Tennyson  raises : 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 

That    Nature   lends    such   evil   dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life. 

But  this  is  not  the  worst.    Tennyson  continues : 

"So  careful  of  the  type?"  but  no. 

From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "A  thousand  types  are  gone: 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me: 

I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death; 

The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath: 
I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law — 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed — 


418  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills? 

No  more?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

In  the  end  Tennyson  recovered  his  faith  in  God  and 
nature;  but  Matthew  Arnold  did  not.  Nothing  is  more 
pathetic  than  Arnold's  confession,  after  his  painful  search 
through  history  for  proof  of  the  existence  of  God,  that 
all  he  could  discover  was  an  indication  of  some  force  out- 
side of  ourselves  which  makes  for  righteousness.  In 
"Dover  Beach"  Arnold  confesses  his  inability  to  believe 
in  God  and  a  future  life.  Though  the  metrical  scheme  of 
the  poem  is  irregular,  the  changes  in  rime  and  length  of 
line  harmonize  perfectly  with  the  changing  thoughts  of 
the  poet. 

DOVER  BEACH 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night, 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits ; — on  the  French  coast  the  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  419 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd  land, 

Listen !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling, 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 

Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 

With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 

The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 


Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  ^Egean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd. 

But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 

And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another !  for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

Matthew  Arnold  (1822-1888) 


420  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"In  a  Wood,"  by  Thomas  Hardy,  best  known  as  a 
novelist  but  also  important  as  a  poet,  shows  the  influence 
of  the  scientific  conception  of  nature  as  a  perpetual  field 
of  battle  between  the  various  forms  of  life.  Unlike 
Wordsworth,  Hardy,  finding  no  comfort  in  nature,  re- 
turns to  his  own  kind. 

IN  A  WOOD 

Pale  beech  and  pine  so  blue, 

Set  in  one  clay, 
Bough  to  bough  cannot  you 

Live  out  your  day? 
When  the  rains  skim  and  skip, 
Why  mar  sweet  comradeship, 
Blighting  with  poison-drip 

Neighbourly  spray? 

Heart-halt  and  spirit-lame, 

City-opprest, 
Unto  this  wood  I  came 

As  to  a  nest; 

Dreaming  that  sylvan  peace 
Offered  the  harrowed  ease — 
Nature  a  soft  release 

From  men's  unrest. 

But,  having  entered  in, 

Great  growths  and  small 
Show  them  to  men  akin — 

Combatants  all ! 
Sycamore  shoulders  oak, 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  421 

Bines  the  slim  sapling  yoke, 
Ivy-spun  halters  choke 
Elms  stout  and  tall. 


Touches  from  ash,  O  wych, 

Sting  you  like  scorn ! 
You,  too,  brave  hollies,  twitch 

Sidelong  from  thorn. 
Even  the  rank  poplars  bear 
Lothly  a  rival's  air, 
Cankering  in  black  despair 

If  overborne. 

Since,  then,  no  grace  I  find 

Taught  me  of  trees, 
Turn  I  back  to  my  kind, 

Worthy  as  these. 
There  at  least  smiles  abound, 
There  discourse  trills  around, 
There,  now  and  then,  are  found 

Life-loyalties. 

Thomas  Hardy  (1840-  ) 

When  we  turn  to  more  recent  writers,  we  find  that, 
though  the  poetry  of  nature  is  less  in  vogue  than  it  was 
a  century  ago,  nature  poems  of  a  high  degree  of  ex- 
cellence are  still  being  written.  In  England  Masefield, 
Noyes,  Walter  de  la  Mare,  and  others  have  all  used 
natural  backgrounds  effectively.  In  our  own  country 
Robinson  and  Frost  describe  the  New  England  landscape, 
which  somehow  seems  more  bleak  than  in  the  poems  of 
Emerson,  Whittier,  and  Lowell.  One  of  the  most  popular 
of  recent  nature  poems  is  Joyce  Kilmer's  "Trees." 


422  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

TREES  * 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  sweet  earth's  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  summer  wear 
A  nest  of  rohins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 

Joyce  Kilmer  (1886-1918) 

No  living  American  poet  has  written  better  nature 
poetry  than  John  Hall  Wheelock.  "Earth,'*  which  we 
quote,  contains  some  of  the  best  lines  to  be  found  in  con- 
temporary poetry ;  his  "Storm  and  Sun"  and  "Golden 
Noon"  are  almost  if  not  quite  as  beautifully  done.  Wheel- 
ock's  last  volume,  Dust  and  Light, — no  poet  ever  gave 
a  happier  title  to  a  book, — contains  also  some  of  the  best 
of  contemporary  love  poems.  It  will  be  noted  that  in 
"Trees"  and  "Earth"  poets  have  found  a  way  to  har- 
monize the  poetic  and  the  scientific  views  of  nature. 

*  From  Joyce  Kilmer:  Poems,  Essays  and  Letters,  copyright,  1918. 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  Publishers. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  423 

EARTH 

Grasshopper,  your  fairy  song 
And  my  poem  alike  belong 
To  the  dark  and  silent  earth 
From  which  all  poetry  has  birth; 
All  we  say  and  all  we  sing 
Is  but  as  the  murmuring 
Of  that  drowsy  heart  of  hers 
When  from  her  deep  dream  she  stirs: 
If  we  sorrow,  or  rejoice, 
You  and  I  are  but  her  voice. 

Deftly  does  the  dust  express 

In  mind  her  hidden  loveliness, 

And  from  her  cool  silence  stream 

The  cricket's  cry  and  Dante's  dream; 

For  the  earth  that  breeds  the  trees 

Breeds  cities  too,  and  symphonies. 

Equally  her  beauty  flows 

Into  a  savior,  or  a  rose — 

Looks  down  in  dream,  and  from  above 

Smiles  at  herself  in  Jesus'  love. 

Christ's  love  and  Homer's  art 

Are  but  the  workings  of  her  heart; 

Through  Leonardo's  hand  she  seeks 

Herself,  and  through  Beethoven  speaks 

In  holy  thunderings  around 

The  awful  message  of  the  ground. 

The  serene  and  humble  mold 
Does  in  herself  all  selves  enfold — 
Kingdoms,  destinies,  and  creeds, 
Great  dreams,  and  dauntless  deeds, 
Science  that  metes  the  firmament, 


424  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

The  high,  inflexible  intent 
Of  one  for  many  sacrificed — 
Plato's  brain,  the  heart  of  Christ; 
All  love,  all  legend,  and  all  lore 
Are  in  the  dust  forevermore. 

Even  as  the  growing  grass 

Up  from  the  soil  religions  pass, 

And  the  field  that  bears  the  rye 

Bears  parables  and  prophecy. 

Out  of  the  earth  the  poem  grows 

Like  the  lily,  or  the  rose; 

And  all  man  is,  or  yet  may  be. 

Is  but  herself  in  agony 

Toiling  up  the  steep  ascent 

Toward  the  complete  accomplishment 

When  all  dust  shall  be,  the  whole 

Universe,  one  conscious  soul. 

Yea,  the  quiet  and  cool  sod 

Bears  in  her  breast  the  dream  of  God. 

If  you  would  know  what  earth  is,  scan 

The  intricate,  proud  heart  of  man, 

Which  is  the  earth  articulate, 

And  learn  how  holy  and  how  great, 

How  limitless  and  how  profound 

Is  the  nature  of  the  ground — 

How  without  terror  or  demur 

We  may  entrust  ourselves  to  her 

When  we  are  wearied  out,  and  lay 

Our  faces  in  the  common  clay. 

For  she  is  pity,  she  is  love, 

All  wisdom,  she,  all  thoughts  that  move 

About  her  everlasting  breast 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  425 

Till  she  gathers  them  to  rest: 
All  tenderness  of  all  the  ages, 
Seraphic  secrets  of  the  sages, 
Vision  and  hope  of  all  the  seers, 
All  prayer,  all  anguish,  and  all  tears 
Are  but  the  dust,  that  from  her  dream 
Awakes,  and  knows  herself  supreme — 
Are  but  the  earth,  when  she  reveals 
All  that  her  secret  heart  conceals 
Down  in  the  dark  and  silent  loam, 
Which  is  ourselves,  asleep,  at  home. 

Yea,  and  this,  my  poem,  too, 
Is  part  of  her  as  dust  and  dew, 
Wherein  herself  she  doth  declare 
Through  my  lips,  and  say  her  prayer. 

John   Hall    JVheelock    (1886-  ) 

It  is  a  curious  and  notable  fact  that  until  recently  the 
great  majority  of  poets  neglected  the  city  as  though  only 
the  country  supplied  suitable  material  for  poetry.  After 
a  visit  to  a  cotton  mill,  Goethe  said  that  it  was  the  most 
poetical  sight  he  had  ever  witnessed;  but  has  Goethe  or 
any  other  poet  ever  written  a  great  poem  about  a  cotton 
mill?  Novelists  and  dramatists  learned  long  ago  how  to 
handle  modern  city  types  and  backgrounds ;  but  while  the 
Victorian  novelists  were  describing  life  in  London,  Tenny- 
son was  writing  about  Lincolnshire  wolds  or  Camelot. 
Poetry  is  the  most  conservative  of  the  arts,  and  the  last, 
in  some  respects,  to  come  in  touch  with  the  actual  life  of 
the  author's  own  time.  Its  language  tends  to  be  archaic, 
its  themes  traditional.  For  over  a  hundred  years  poets 
generally  echoed  Cowper's  line,  "God  made  the  country 


426  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

and  man  made  the  town."  The  continued  neglect  of  the 
city  seems  absurd  when  we  remember  that  during  this  very 
period  practically  all  of  the  poets  and  most  of  their 
readers  lived  in  cities.  Today  over  one-half  of  the  popu- 
lation of  the  United  States  is  urban,  and  England  has 
been  an  industrial  nation  for  over  a  century.  Contem- 
porary poets  rebel  against  the  notion  that  only  woods, 
lakes,  and  mountains  offer  suitable  material  for  poetry. 
Older  poems  which  deal  with  the  city  generally  describe 
the  romantic  cities  of  Europe,  Venice,  Rome,  or  Athens. 
One  recalls  Poe's  "The  Coliseum"  and  the  descriptions  of 
Rome  in  Byron's  Manfred  and  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage. 
We  quote  part  of  the  famous  passage  in  the  fourth  canto 
of  the  latter  poem : 

Oh  Rome !  my  country !     City  of  the  soul ! 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 

Lone  mother  of  dead  empires!  and  control 

In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 

What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?     Come  and  see 

The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 

O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye! 

Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 

A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands 

Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 

An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 

Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago; 

The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 

The  very  sepulchers  lie  tenantless 

Of  their  heroic  dwellers;  dost  thou  flow, 

Old  Tiber !  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 

Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  427 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire 

Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's  pride; 

She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 

And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 

Where  the  car  climbed  the  Capitol;  far  and  wide 

Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site: 

Chaos  of  ruins !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 

O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 

And  say,  "Here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

The  older  poet  usually  hated  the  typical  city  of  his 
generation.  For  him  the  city  of  his  day  represented 
greed  and  commercialism,  blindness  to  beautiful  and  per- 
manent things. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 

This  Wordsworthian  hatred  of  materialism  is  powerfully 
expressed  in  Bret  Harte's  "San  Francisco,"  from  which 
the  following  stanzas  are  taken : 

0  lion's  whelp,  that  hidest  fast 

In  jungle  growth  of  spire  and  mast! 

1  know  thy  cunning  and  thy  greed, 
Thy  hard  high  lust  and  wilful  deed, 

And  all  thy  glory  loves  to  tell 
Of  specious  gifts  material. 

Wordsworth's  magnificent  sonnet,  "Westminster 
Bridge,"  is  a  striking  exception  to  the  Romantic  attitude 


428  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

toward  the  town  and  the  country.  For  once  the  great 
nature  poet  saw  and  painted  with  unrivaled  skill  the 
beauty  of  a  great  city. 

COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE 

September  3,  1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 

This  City  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning;   silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres  and  temples  lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 

William  Wordsworth  (1770-1850) 

Something  of  the  modern  poetic  attitude  toward  the 
city  can  be  found  in  the  poems  of  Bryant  and  Browning. 
"The  Crowded  Street"  and  the  "Hymn  of  the  City"  show 
that  Bryant  found  God  in  the  city  as  well  as  in  the  prime- 
val forest.  In  the  following  poem  by  Browning  city  and 
country  life  are  contrasted  by  an  Italian  whom  the  high 
cost  of  living  has  compelled,  against  his  will,  to  live  in 
the  country.  Browning's  own  point  of  view,  it  need 
hardly  be  said,  is  not  identical  with  that  of  the  speaker. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  429 

UP  AT  A  VILLA— DOWN  IN  THE  CITY 

(As  Distinguished  by  an  Italian  Person  of  Quality) 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city-square ; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window  there ! 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least! 
There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than  a 
beast. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa!  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull ! 
— I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair's  turned 
wool. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city — the  square  with  the  houses  !    Why  ? 
They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there's  something  to 

take  the  eye! 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry; 
You    watch    who    crosses    and    gossips,    who    saunters,    who 

hurries  by; 
Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun 

gets  high; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted  properly. 

What  of  a  villa?    Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by  rights, 

'Tis  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well  off 
the  heights: 

You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen 
steam  and  wheeze, 

And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray  olive- 
trees. 


430  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?     You've  summer  all  at  once; 
In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three  fingers 

well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  the  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great 

red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick 

and  sell. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square?     There's  a  fountain  to  spout 

and  to  splash ! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs ;  in  the  shine  such  f oambows 

flash 
On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and  paddle 

and  pash 

Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch — fifty  gazers  do  not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist  in 

a  sort  of  sash. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to   see  though  you 

linger, 
Except    yon    cypress    that    points    like    death's    lean    lifted 

forefinger. 
Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  corn  and 

mingle, 

Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem  a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is  shrill,, 
And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous 

firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare  you  the  months  of  the  fever 

and  chill. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church-bells 

begin : 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in: 
You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  431 

By  and  by  there's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets  blood, 

draws  teeth ; 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — the  new  play,  piping 

hot! 
And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves 

were  shot. 

Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes, 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new  law 

of  the  Duke's ! 
Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don  So- 

and  so, 

Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Saint  Jerome,  and  Cicero, 
"And  moreover,"   (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,)   "the  skirts  of 

Saint  Paul  has  reached, 
Having  preached  us   those   six   Lent-lectures   more   unctuous 

than  ever  he  preached." 
Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  procession !  our  Lady  borne 

smiling  and  smart 
With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords  stuck 

in  her  heart ! 

Bang-whang-tvhang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still:  it's  the  greatest  pleasure  in 

life. 

But  bless  you,  it's  dear — it's  dear;  fowls,  wine,  at  double  the 

rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays 

passing  the  gate 
It's  a  horror  'to  think  of.     And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not  the 

city! 

Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers:  but  still — ah,  the  pity,  the 

pity! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with  cowls 

and  sandals, 


432  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the  yellow 

candles ; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross  with 

handles, 
And   the   Duke's   guard  brings   up  the  rear,   for   the  better 

prevention  of  scandals: 

Bang  whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there's  no  such  pleasure  in  life ! 

Robert  Browning   (1812-1889) 

The  first  poet  who  deliberately  tried  to  put  the  city  into 
poetry  was  Walt  Whitman,  who  believed  that  all  life  is 
intrinsically  poetic.  Whitman  loved  New  York  as  Charles 
Lamb  loved  London,  as  few  poets  ever  loved  any  city.  "A 
Broadway  Pageant,"  "Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry,"  and 
"Mannahatta"  are  all  attempts  to  picture  the  multifari- 
ous life  of  the  American  metropolis.  Among  the  contem- 
porary American  poets  who  have  followed  in  Whitman's 
footsteps,  none  has  more  successfully  painted  the  city 
than  John  Gould  Fletcher. 


BROADWAY'S  CANYON 


This  is  like  the  nave  of  an  unfinished  cathedral 

With  steep  shadowy  sides. 

Light  and  shade  alternate, 

Repeat  and  die  away. 

Golden  traceries  of  sunlight, 

Blue  buttresses  of  shadow, 

Answer  like  pier  and  column, 

All  the  way  down  to  the  sea. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  433 

But  the  temple  is  still  roofless: 

Only  the  sky  above  it 

Closes  it  round,  encircling 

With  its  weightless  vault  of  blue. 

There  is  no  image  or  inscription  or  altar, 

And  the  clamor  of  free-moving  multitudes 

Are  its  tireless  organ  tones, 

While  the  hammers  beat  out  its  chimes. 


Blue  grey  smoke  swings  heavily, 
Fuming  from  leaden  censers, 
Upwards  about  the  street. 
Lamps  glimmer  with  crimson  points  of  flame. 
The  black  canyon 
Bares  its  gaunt,  stripped  sides. 
Heavily,  oppressively,  the  skies  roll  on  above  it, 
Like  curses  yet  unfulfilled. 
The  wind  shrieks  and  crashes, 
The  burly  trucks  rumble; 

Ponderous  as  funeral-cars,  undraped,  and  unstrewn  with 
flowers. 

John  Gould  Fletcher  (1886-  ) 

In  "Chicago"  Carl  Sandburg  has  given  a  vivid  and 
powerful  impression  of  the  city  in  which  he  lives.  If  one 
should  object  that  the  picture  is  not  beautiful,  the  poet's 
answer  would  be  that  Chicago's  chief  characteristic  is  not 
beauty  but  power. 

CHICAGO 

Hog-Butcher  for  the  World, 

Tool-maker,  Stacker  of  Wheat, 

Player  with   Railroads  and  the  Nation's   Freight-handler; 


434  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Stormy,  husky,  brawling, 
City  of  the  Big  Shoulders : 

They  tell  me  you  are  wicked  and  I  believe  them,  for  I  have 

seen  your  painted  women  under  the  gas  lamps  luring 

the  farm  boys. 
And  they  tell  me  you  are  crooked,  and  I  answer,  Yes,  it  is 

true  I  have  seen  the  gunman  kill  and  go  free  to  kill 

again. 
And  they  tell  me  you  are  brutal  and  my  reply  is,  On  the  faces 

of   women   and    children    I    have   seen   the   marks   of 

wanton  hunger. 
And  having  answered  so  I  turn  once  more  to  those  who  sneer 

at  this  my  city,  and  I  give  them  back  the  sneer  and  say 

to  them: 
Come  and  show  me  another  city  with  lifted  head  singing  so 

proud  to  be  alive  and  coarse  and  strong  and  cunning. 
Flinging  magnetic  curses  amid  the  toil  of  piling  job  on  job, 

here  is  a  tall  bold  slugger  set  vivid  against  the  little 

soft  cities; 
Fierce  as  a  dog  with  tongue  lapping  for  action,  cunning  as  a 

savage  pitted  against  the  wilderness, 
Bareheaded, 
Shoveling, 
Wrecking, 
Planning, 

Building,  breaking,  rebuilding, 
Under  the  smoke,  dust  all  over  his  mouth,  laughing  with  white 

teeth, 
Under  the  terrible  burden  of  destiny  laughing  as  a  young 

man  laughs, 
Laughing  even  as  an  ignorant  fighter  laughs  who  has  never 

lost  a  battle, 
Bragging  and  laughing  that  under  his  wrist  is  the  pulse,  and 

under  his  ribs  the  heart  of  the  people, 
Laughing ! 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  435 

Laughing  the  stormy,  husky,  brawling  laughter  of  youth; 
half-naked,  sweating,  proud  to  be  Hog-butcher,  Tool- 
maker,  Stacker  of  Wheat,  Player  with  Railroads,  and 
Freight-handler  to  the  Nation. 

Curl  Sandburg  (1878-  ) 

Is  this  poetry  at  all?  some  readers  will  inevitably  ask. 
Others  will  raise  the  question,  Is  our  industrial  life,  our 
machinery,  proper  material  for  poetry?  We  believe  they 
are  proper  but  enormously  difficult  subjects  for  poetry. 
We  would  not  say  that  these  subjects  are  any  better  than 
others,  but  that  no  one  has  the  right  to  exclude  these,  or 
any  other  themes,  from  the  world  of  poetry.  Under  cer- 
tain conditions,  science,  invention,  and  machinery  are 
proper  subjects  for  poetry;  and  no  one  has  better  ex- 
plained these  conditions  than  Wordsworth.  "Poetry," 
said  he,  "is  as  immortal  as  the  heart  of  man.  If  the 
labors  of  the  men  of  science  should  ever  create  any  ma- 
terial revolution,  direct  or  indirect,  in  our  condition  .  .  . 
the  poet  .  .  .  will  be  ready  to  follow  the  steps  of  the 
man  of  science.  .  .  .  The  remotest  discoveries  of  the 
chemist,  the  botanist  or  mineralogist  will  be  as  proper 
objects  of  the  poet's  art  as  any  upon  which  it  can  be 
employed,  if  the  time  should  ever  come  when  these  things 
shall  be  familiar  to  us,  and  .  .  .  manifestly  and  palpa- 
bly material  to  us  as  enjoying  and  suffering  beings." 

Has  not  this  time  come?  Today  the  majority  of  us 
live  in  towns.  Our  civilization  is  industrial;  it  is  based 
largely  on  the  intelligent  use  of  machinery.  And  yet,  so 
slow  were  the  poets  to  respond  to  changing  conditions, 
that  the  first  transatlantic  steamer  had  crossed  the  Atlan- 
tic over  half  a  century  before  Kipling  wrote  his  "M'An- 


436  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

drews'  Hymn,'*  one  of  the  first  great  poems  dealing  with 
machinery.  In  "The  King,"  quoted  in  the  succeeding 
chapter,  Kipling  protests  against  the  notion  that  modern 
machinery  is  not  poetic.  In  this  field  also  Walt  Whitman 
was  something  of  a  pioneer. 

TO  A  LOCOMOTIVE  IN  WINTER 

Thee  for  my  recitative, 

Thee  in  the  driving  storm  even  as  now,  the  snow,  the  winter- 
day  declining, 

Thee  in  thy  panoply,  thy  measur'd  dual  throbbing  and  thy 
beat  convulsive, 

Thy  black  cylindric  body,  golden  brass  and  silvery  steel, 

Thy  ponderous  side-bars,  parallel  and  connecting  rods, 
gyrating,  shuttling  at  thy  sides, 

Thy  metrical,  now  swelling  pant  and  roar,  now  tapering  in 
the  distance, 

Thy  great  protruding  head-light  fix'd  in  front, 

Thy  long,  pale,  floating  vapor-pennants,  tinged  with  delicate 
purple, 

The  dense  and  murky  clouds  out-belching  from  thy  smoke- 
stack, 

Thy  knitted  frame,  thy  springs  and  valves,  the  tremulous 
twinkle  of  thy  wheels, 

Thy  train  of  cars  behind,  obedient,  merrily  following, 

Through  gale  or  calm,  now  swift,  now  slack,  yet  steadily 
careering; 

Type  of  the  modern — emblem  of  motion  and  power — pulse 
of  the  continent, 

For  once  come  serve  the  Muse  and  merge  in  verse,  even  as 
here  I  see  thee, 

With  storm  and  buffeting  gusts  of  wind  and  falling  snow, 

By  day  thy  warning  ringing  bell  to  sound  its  notes, 

By  night  thy  silent  signal  lamps  to  swing. 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  437 

Fierce-throated  beauty ! 

Roll  through  my  chant  with  all  thy  lawless  music,  thy  swing- 
ing lamps  at  night, 

Thy  madly-whistled  laughter,  echoing,  rumbling  like  an  earth- 
quake, rousing  all, 

Law  of  thyself  complete,  thine  own  track  firmly  holding, 
(No  sweetness  debonair  of  tearful  harp  or  glib  piano  thine,) 
Thy  trills  of  shrieks  by  rocks  and  hills  return'd, 
Launch'd  o'er  the  prairies  wide,  across  the  lakes, 
To  the  free  skies  unpent  and  glad  and  strong. 

Walt  Whitman  (1819-1891) 

The  movement  for  beautifying  American  cities  has 
found  expression  in  the  poems  of  Vachel  Lindsay.  "The 
things  most  worth  while,"  he  says,  "are  one's  own  hearth 
and  neighborhood.  We  should  make  our  own  home  and 
neighborhood  the  most  democratic,  the  most  beautiful 
and  the  holiest  in  the  world."  Like  other  poets,  he  pro- 
tests against  the  greed,  the  ugliness,  and  the  commercial- 
ism of  most  large  cities. 

ON  THE  BUILDING  OF  SPRINGFIELD 

Let  not  our  town  be  large — remembering 
That  little  Athens  was  the  Muses'  home; 

That  Oxford  rules  the  heart  of  London  still, 
That  Florence  gave  the  Renaissance  to  Rome. 

Record  it  for  the  grandson  of  your  son — 

A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day: 
Our  little  town  cannot  complete  her  soul 

Till  countless  generations  pass  away. 

Now  let  each  child  be  joined  as  to  a  church 
To  her  perpetual  hopes,  each  man  ordained; 


438  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Let  every  street  be  made  a  reverent  aisle 

Where  music  grows,  and  beauty  is  unchained. 

Let  Science  and  Machinery  and  Trade 

Be  slaves  of  her,  and  make  her  all  in  all — 

Building  against  our  blatant  restless  time 
An  unseen,  skillful  mediaeval  wall. 

Let  every  citizen  be  rich  toward  God. 

Let  Christ,  the  beggar,  teach  divinity — 
Let  no  man  rule  who  holds  his  money  dear. 

Let  this,  our  city,  be  our  luxury. 

We  should  build  parks  that  students  from  afar 

Would  choose  to  starve  in,  rather  than  go  home- 
Fair  little  squares,  with  Phidian  ornament — 
Food  for  the  spirit,  milk  and  honeycomb. 

Songs  shall  be  sung  by  us  in  that  good  day — 
Songs  we  have  written — blood  within  the  rhyme 

Beating,  as  when  old  England  still  was  glad, 
The  purple,  rich,  Elizabethan  time. 

Say,  is  my  prophecy  too  fair  and  far? 

I  only  know,  unless  her  faith  be  high, 
The  soul  of  this  our  Nineveh  is  doomed, 

Our  little  Babylon  will  surely  die. 

Some  city  on  the  breast  of  Illinois 
No  wiser  and  no  better  at  the  start, 

By  faith  shall  rise  redeemed — by  faith  shall  rise 
Bearing  the  western  glory  in  her  heart — 

The  genius  of  the  Maple,  Elm  and  Oak, 
The  secret  hidden  in  each  grain  of  corn — 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  439 

The  glory  that  the  prairie  angels  sing 

At  night  when  sons  of  Life  and  Love  are  born — 

Born  but  to  struggle,  squalid  and  alone, 
Broken  and  wandering  in  their  early  years. 

When  will  they  make  our  dusty  streets  their  goal, 
Within  our  attics  hide  their  sacred  tears? 

When  will  they  start  our  vulgar  blood  athrill 
With  living  language — words  that  set  us  free  ? 

When  will  they  make  a  path  of  beauty  clear 
Between  our  riches  and  our  liberty? 

We  must  have  many  Lincoln-hearted  men — 

A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day — 
And  they  must  do  their  work,  and  come  and  go 

While  countless  generations  pass  away. 

Vachel  Lindsay   (1879-  ) 

In  many  of  the  Western  states  the  transition  from 
one  stage  of  civilization  to  the  next  succeeding  stage  has 
been  phenomenally  rapid.  Centuries  have  been  com- 
pressed into  decades,  and  decades  into  a  day.  The  fron- 
tiersman— scout,  hunter,  miner,  or  cowboy — is  speedily 
followed  by  the  farmer,  who  fences  in  the  open  prairie, 
builds  a  home,  and  raises  cotton  or  wheat.  The  farmer, 
in  turn,  is  often  driven  further  west  by  the  city,  with  its 
shops,  factories,  and  railways.  In  this  last  stage  the 
West  has  become  a  second  East.  Although  few  Eastern- 
ers have  suspected  it,  Texas  has  almost  wholly  lost  her 
cowboys  and  the  picturesque  life  of  the  cattle  ranch. 
Not  only  that,  for  after  being  for  two  or  more  decades 
a  leading  agricultural  state,  Texas  has  already  entered 


440  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

the  stage  of  industrial  development.  What  not  a  few 
old-time  Texans  feel  as  they  contrast  the  picturesque 
Texas  which  is"  gone  with  the  hustling  commercialistic 
Texas  which  is  at  hand,  Texans  have  left  to  an  Eastern 
poet,  Amy  Lowell,  to  tell. 

TEXAS 

I  went  a-riding,  a-riding, 

Over  a  great  long  plain. 

And  the  plain  went  a-sliding,  a-sliding 

Away  from  my  bridle-rein. 

Fields  of  cotton,  and  fields  of  wheat, 

Thunder-blue  gentians  by  a  wire  fence, 

Standing  cypress,  red  and  tense, 

Holding  its  flower  rigid  like  a  gun, 

Dressed  for  parade  by  the  running  wheat, 

By  the  little  bouncing  cotton.     Terribly  sweet  . 

The  cardinals  sing  in  the  live-oak  trees, 

And  the  long  plain  breeze, 

The  prairie  breeze, 

Blows  across  from  swell  to  swell 

With  a  ginger  smell. 

Just  ahead,  where  the  road  curves  round, 

A  long-eared  rabbit  makes  a  bound 

Into  a  wheat-field,  into  a  cotton-field, 

His  track  glitters  after  him  and  goes  still  again 

Over  to  the  left  of  my  bridle-rein. 

But  over  to  the  right  is  a  glare — glare — glare — 
Of   sharp   glass   windows. 

A  narrow  square  of  brick  jerks  thickly  up  above  the  cotton 
plants, 


POEMS  STUDIED  BY  THEME  441 

A  raucous  mercantile  thing  flaring  the   sun   from  thirty-six 

windows, 

Brazenly  declaring  itself  to  the  lovely  fields. 
Tram-cars  run  like  worms  about  the  feet  of  this  thing, 
The  coffins  of  cotton-bales  feed  it, 
The  threshed  wheat  is  its  golden  blood. 
But  here  it  has  no  feet, 

It  has  only  the  steep  ironic  grin  of  its  thirty-six  windows, 
Only  its  basilisk  eyes  counting  the  fields, 
Doing  sums  of  how  many  buildings  to  a  city,  all  day  and  all 

night. 

Once  they  went  a-riding,  a-riding, 

Over  the  great  long  plain. 

Cowboys  singing  to  their  dogey  steers, 

Cowboys  perched  on  forty-dollar  saddles, 

Riding  to  the  North,  six  months  to  get  there, 

Six  months  to  reach  Wyoming. 

"Hold  up,  paint  horse,  herd  the  little  dogies. 

Over  the  lone  prairie." 

Bones  of  dead  steers, 

Bones  of  cowboys, 

Under  the  wheat,  maybe. 

The  sky-scraper  sings  another  way, 

A  tune  of  steel,  of  wheels,  of  gold. 

And  the  ginger  breeze  blows,  blows  all  day 

Tanged  with  flowers  and  mold. 

And  the  Texas  sky  whirls  down,  whirls  down, 

Taking  long  looks  at  the  fussy  town. 

An  old  sky  and  a  long  plain 

Beyond,  beyond,  my  bridle-rein. 

A  my  Lowell  (1874-  ) 

In  reality,  something  of  the  traditional  hostility  of  the 
poets  to  the  cities  will  continue  while  selfish  men  live  in 


442  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

them  and  run  them  for  their  own  selfish  ends.  The  old 
attitude  re-appears  with  a  new  emphasis  in  the  following 
poem  in  prose  by  Lord  Dunsany,  who  looks  upon  the 
great  city  as  a  violent  distortion  of  the  purpose  of  nature. 

THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  FLOWERS  * 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  flowers  on  the  West  wind,  the  lovable, 
the  old,  the  lazy  West  wind,  blowing  ceaselessly,  blowing 
sleepily,  going  Greecewards. 

"The  Woods  have  gone  away,  they  have  fallen  and  left  us ; 
men  love  us  no  longer,  we  are  lonely  by  moonlight.  Great 
engines  rush  over  the  beautiful  fields,  their  ways  lie  hard  and 
terrible  up  and  down  the  land. 

"The  cancrous  cities  spread  over  the  grass,  they  clatter  in 
their  lairs  continually,  they  glitter  about  us  blemishing  the 
night. 

"The  Woods  are  gone,  O  Pan,  the  woods,  the  woods.  And 
thou  art  far,  O  Pan,  and  far  away." 

I  was  standing  by  night  between  two  railway  embankments 
on  the  edge  of  a  Midland  city.  On  one  of  them  I  saw  the 
trains  go  by,  once  in  every  two  minutes,  and  on  the  other, 
the  trains  went  by  twice  in  every  five. 

Quite  close  were  the  glaring  factories,  and  the  sky  above 
them  wore  the  fearful  look  that  it  wears  in  dreams  of  fever. 

The  flowers  were  right  in  the  stride  of  that  advancing  city, 
and  thence  I  heard  them  sending  up  their  cry.  And  then  I 
heard,  beating  musically  up  wind,  the  voice  of  Pan  reproving 
them  from  Arcady — "Be  patient  a  little,  these  things  are  not 
for  long." 

Lord  Dunsany  (1878-  ) 

*  Copyrighted  by  Little,  Brown  and  Company. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS 

Lo,  with  the  ancient 
Roots  of  man's  nature, 
Twines  the  eternal 
Passion  of  song. 

Ever  Love  fans  it, 
Ever  Life  feeds  it; 
Time  cannot  age  it, 

Death  cannot  slay. 
William  Watson :  "England  my  Mother" 

WE  are  living  in  a  poetic  age.  It  is  a  little  difficult  to 
grasp  this  fact  until  one  recalls  the  status  of  poetry  some 
twenty  years  ago.  In  1900  the  public  read  little  beside 
fiction;  the  short  story  was  in  its  heyday.  A  volume  of 
verse  was  something  to  be  printed  at  the  author's  expense 
and  read  only  by  the  poet's  friends.  The  few  poems  that 
were  published  were,  in  the  main,  thin  and  bookish  re- 
echoings  of  older  poets.  Poetry  had  nearly  lost  its  con- 
tact with  life.  Only  those  writers  who  cultivated  light 
verse  and  the  French  forms  were  making  any  real  ad- 
vance. In  England  twenty  years  ago  there  was  no 
younger  poet  of  first  importance  except  Kipling.  In 
America  the  older  New  England  poets  were  all  dead,  and 

443 


444  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

such  poets  as  were  writing  were  not  widely  read.  Edmund 
Clarence  Stedman,  Madison  Cawein,  and  William  Vaughn 
Moody  did  not  write  the  kind  of  poetry  which  many  per- 
sons will  ever  care  to  read.  Even  as  recently  as  1910,  only 
one  of  the  strictly  contemporary  American  poets  had 
begun  to  write:  this  was  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  then 
almost  entirely  unknown.  Foreign  observers  might  well 
imagine  that  America  was  too  materialistic  ever  to  pro- 
duce a  supremely  great  poet.  We  even  said  the  same  thing 
of  ourselves.  Some  shared  Macaulay's  opinion  that  "as 
civilization  advances,  poetry  almost  necessarily  de- 
clines.'* 

Today,  however,  no  poet  has  cause  to  lament,  like  Mil- 
ton, that  he  is  "fallen  on  evil  days,"  for  never  before  in 
the  history  of  the  world  were  so  many  people  interested 
in  poetry.  The  evidence  is  unmistakable.  There  are 
several  magazines  devoted  wholly  to  poetry.  Many  of  the 
older  publications,  which  in  1910  used  verse  only  as  a 
"filler,"  now  make  it  a  feature.  In  recent  years  both 
publishers  and  authors  have  been  known  to  reap  large 
profits  from  a  volume  of  verse.  Nor  is  this  all.  At  hun- 
dreds of  club  meetings  and  popular  lectures  recent  poetry 
is  being  read  and  discussed.  Numerous  handbooks  and 
anthologies  have  been  published  to  meet  the  widespread 
demand  for  information  in  regard  to  contemporary  poets. 
Most  remarkable  fact  of  all  perhaps,  present-day  poetry 
has  at  last  received  recognition  in  that  conservative  quar- 
ter, the  college  curriculum.  If  we  except  the  little  com- 
munity around  Boston  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century, 
nothing  like  this  wide  interest  in  poetry  has  ever  been 
known  in  America. 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  445 

One  of  the  most  striking  aspects  of  contemporary 
poetry  is  its  re-conquest  of  much  of  the  territory  which 
verse  had  lost  to  prose.  When  literature  emerged  from 
the  twilight  obscurity  of  prehistoric  times,  it  consisted 
solely  of  poetry ;  prose  was  a  later  development.  The 
Greeks  had  no  Muse  for  either  the  novel  or  the  short 
story.  Ever  since  the  invention  of  printing,  prose  has 
encroached  more  and  more  upon  the  narrowing  confines 
of  poetry.  The  novel,  the  short  story,  and  the  essay 
rendered  the  epic  and  the  ballad  well-nigh  obsolete.  It 
began  to  look  as  though  poetry  were  to  be  limited  to  the 
lyric.  For  a  decade  or  more — if  we  except  certain 
brilliant  young  novelists  who  have  come  into  prominence 
within  the  last  two  or  three  years — prose  fiction  has  been 
conventional  and  inferior  in  quality;  this  is  especially 
true  of  America.  The  short  story  in  particular  has  be- 
come stereotyped,  machine-made,  and  out  of  touch  with 
life.  Hence  those  writers  who  have  stories  to  tell  now 
frequently  turn  to  poetry  as  a  freer  medium  of  expres- 
sion. The  best  of  the  poems  of  Noyes  and  Masefield,  of 
Frost,  Robinson,  Masters,  and  Amy  Lowell  are  narra- 
tive. 

We  shall  discuss  the  British  poets  first  because  they 
illustrate,  better  than  the  American,  the  transition  from 
the  older  poetry  to  the  new.  In  English  poetry  we  find 
two  strongly  contrasted  groups  of  poets,  who,  for  want 
of  more  exact  terms,  are  usually  called  the  conservatives 
and  the  radicals.  Among  the  conservatives  we  may  class 
William  Watson ;  Robert  Bridges,  the  poet  laureate ; 
Alfred  Noyes ;  and  three  poets  no  longer  living,  Stephen 
Phillips,  Andrew  Lang,  and  Austin  Dobson.  The  best 


446  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

known  poets  of  the  radical  group  are  John  Masefield  and 
Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson.  With  them  we  may  class  two 
older  poets,  Kipling  and  Yeats,  and  the  younger  poets 
known  as  the  Georgians.  The  conservative  poets,  in  the 
main,  continue  the  ideals  and  methods  of  the  Victorians, 
especially  Swinburne  and  Tennyson.  The  radicals  rebel 
against  the  ideals  of  the  Victorians  and  seek  new  themes 
and  experiment  with  new  modes  of  expression. 

Tennyson  is  the  pet  aversion  of  the  radicals;  and 
Tennyson,  though  a  genuine  poet  and  a  great  artist,  had 
certain  faults  which  his  successors  widely  imitated.  The 
result  was  that  poetry  became  highly  conventional  in 
language,  in  ideas,  and  in  technique.  Professor  Thorn- 
dike  in  a  brilliant  study  of  the  Victorian  period,  Litera- 
ture in  a  Changing  Age,  points  out  the  conventional 
side  of  Tennyson's  diction:  "Flowers,  moonlight,  the  lap- 
ping wave,  jewels  and  silks,  the  open  road,  the  wind  in 
the  trees,  the  flash  of  swords,  the  pale  face  and  the  deep 
eyes,  the  rose  of  dawn,  the  lone  sea  mew — whatever  is 
pretty,  melodious,  picturesque,  and  rather  superfluous  in 
the  day's  work — furnish  the  thread  of  poetic  embroidery 
for  Tennyson,  and  for  how  many  imitators!"  Tenny- 
son's followers,  being  unable  to  rival  his  original  merits, 
imitated  his  faults:  his  over-ornate  diction,  his  sentimen- 
tality, his  artificial  themes.  The  subjects  of  Swinburne, 
Morris,  and  Rossetti,  for  instance,  are  drawn  oftener 
from  books  than  from  life;  their  poems  presuppose  more 
culture  than  the  average  reader  possesses.  Late  Vic- 
torian poetry  was  out  of  touch  with  the  life  of  the  Eng- 
lish people.  The  time  was  ripe  for  a  new  poetic  move- 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  447 

ment  which  should  bring  poetry  back  into  touch  with  the 
common  man.  Before  that  could  be  done,  however,  it  was 
necessary  to  abandon  the  outworn  poetic  diction  and  the 
dead  stock  ideas  of  the  older  poets. 

Before  we  take  leave  of  Tennyson,  let  us  point  out  cer- 
tain poems  by  living  poets  which  furnish  an  excellent 
basis  for  a  comparison  between  his  work  and  theirs.  In 
The  Daffodil  Fields  Masefield  has  told  a  story  which 
bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  that  of  Enoch  Arden. 
The  plot  of  Amy  Lowell's  "Dried  Marjoram"  is  very 
similar  to  that  of  Tennyson's  "Rizpah."  In  Merlin 
and  Lancelot  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  has  tempted 
comparison  with  The  Idylls  of  the  King.  A  study  of 
these  poems  will  give  the  reader  an  accurate  conception 
of  the  great  changes  in  poetic  language  and  technique 
which  have  come  about  in  the  last  two  or  three  dec- 
ades. 

One  discerns  the  first  signs  of  an  approaching  change 
in  poetic  ideals  and  methods  in  Browning,  whose  versifica- 
tion, diction,  and  subject  matter  were  more  modern  than 
those  of  any  of  his  Victorian  contemporaries.  Rudyard 
Kipling,  however,  was  the  first  to  break  completely  with 
the  waning  Victorian  tradition.  He  employed  not  the 
ornate  diction  of  Swinburne,  Rossetti,  and  Morris  but  the 
simple  dialect  of  the  British  Tommy.  In  his  Barrack- 
room  Ballads,  he  wrote,  not  of  Camelot,  or  Old  Japan,  or 
the  Earthly  Paradise,  but  of  the  life  he  knew  at  first  hand 
in  India.  By  adopting  the  simple  language  and  rhythm 
of  the  ballad,  he  managed  to  write  poetry  which  the 
average  person,  indifferent  to  Swinburne,  could  readily 


448  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

understand  and  enjoy.  The  result  was  a  great  popular 
success.  His  poems  were  widely  imitated  by  other  writers, 
including  Robert  W.  Service,  the  Canadian  poet;  Alfred 
Noyes  ;  and  John  Masefield. 

Some  of  the  later  poems  of  Kipling  are  much  less 
popular  than  they  deserve  to  be,  for  they  possess  a  more 
substantial  content  of  thought.  The  later  poems  show 
also  a  much  greater  range  than  the  early  poems.  Kip- 
ling is  one  of  the  most  versatile  of  living  poets.  In 
everything  but  name  he  is  the  laureate  of  the  British 
Empire.  He  was  the  first  of  British  writers  in  prose  or 
verse  to  perceive  the  poetry  latent  in  the  Empire.  With 
him  for  the  first  time  Great  Britain  seems  to  have  become 
conscious  of  her  world-wide  territory  and  her  duties  and 
opportunities.  Lord  Kitchener  must  have  felt  this  when 
he  put  into  the  hands  of  every  British  soldier  in  France 
a  copy  of  Kipling's  "If." 

Kipling,  like  most  contemporary  poets,  finds  his  ro 
mance  in  the  present  rather  than  in  the  past.  To  most 
older  poets,  novelists,  and  dramatists,  romance  implied 
the  far-off  in  space  or  time.  Recent  writers  like 
Masefield  and  O.  Henry  follow  Kipling  in  revealing  the 
romantic  side  of  familiar  things.  More  than  any  other 
poet,  Kipling  has  tried  to  point  out  the  poetry  and  ro- 
mance latent  in  modern  machinery.  "The  King,"  which 
we  quote,  is  a  most  effective  satire  upon  the  notion  that 
only  the  past  is  romantic.  This  poem,  like  Kipling's 
"To  the  True  Romance,"  "The  Conundrum  of  the  Work- 
shops," "The  Story  of  Ung,"  and  "The  Three- 
decker,"  is  in  addition  to  its  poetic  merits,  valuable  as 
criticism. 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  449 

THE  KING 

"Farewell,  Romance!"  the  Cave-men  said; 

"With  bone  well  carved  he  went  away. 
Flint  arms  the  ignoble  arrowhead, 

And  jasper  tips  the  spear  to-day. 
Changed  are  the  Gods  of  Hunt  and  Dance, 
And  he  with  these.     Farewell,  Romance!" 

"Farewell,  Romance!"  the  Lake- fold  sighed; 

"We  lift  the  weight  of  flatling  years ; 
The  caverns  of  the  mountain-side 

Hold  him  who  scorns  our  hutted  piers. 
Lost  hills  whereby  we  dare  not  dwell, 
Guard  ye  his  rest.     Romance,  Farewell !" 

"Farewell,  Romance!"  the  Soldier  spoke; 

"By  slight  of  sword  we  may  not  win, 
But  scuffle  'mid  uncleanly  smoke 

Of  arquebus  and  culverin. 
Honour  is  lost,  and  none  may  tell 
Who  paid  good  blows.     Romance,  farewell !" 

"Farewell,  Romance!"  the  Traders  cried; 

"Our  keels  have  lain  with  every  sea; 
The  dull-returning  wind  and  tide 

Heave  up  the  wharf  where  we  would  be; 
The  known  and  noted  breezes  swell 
Our  trudging  sail.     Romance,  farewell!" 

"Good-bye,  Romance!"  the  Skipper  said; 

"He  vanished  with  the  coal  we  burn; 
Our  dial  marks  full  steam  ahead, 

Our  speed  is  timed  to  half  a  turn. 
Sure  as  the  ferried  barge  we  ply 
'Twixt  port  and  port.     Romance,  good-bye!" 


450  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

"Romance !"  the  season-tickets  mourn, 

"He  never  ran  to  catch  his  train, 
But  passed  with  coach  and  guard  and  horn — 

And  left  the  local — late  again !" 
Confound  Romance !  .  .  .  And  all  unseen 
Romance  brought  up  the  nine-fifteen. 

His  hand  was  on  the  lever  laid, 

His  oil-can  soothed  the  worrying  cranks, 

His  whistle  waked  the  snowbound  grade, 
His  fog-horn  cut  the  reeking  Banks; 

By  dock  and  deep  and  mine  and  mill 

The  Boy-god  reckless  laboured  still! 

Robed,  crowned  and  throned,  he  wove  his  spell, 
Where  heart-blood  beat  or  hearth-smoke  curled, 

With  unconsidered  miracle, 

Hedged  in  a  backward-gazing  world: 

Then  taught  his  chosen  bard  to  say: 

"Our  King  was  with  us — yesterday !" 

Rudyard  Kipling  (1865-  ) 

The  leader  of  the  Irish  literary  movement,  William 
Butler  Yeats,  though  he  has  little  else  in  common  with 
Kipling,  shows  an  equal  aversion  to  the  conventional  lan- 
guage of  Tennyson's  imitators.  Speaking  in  Chicago 
several  years  ago,  he  said :  "We  tried  to  strip  away  every- 
thing that  was  artificial,  to  get  a  style  like  speech,  as 
simple  as  the  simplest  prose,  like  a  cry  of  the  heart." 
Some  of  Yeats's  poems,  like  his  ballad,  "Father  Gilli- 
gan,"  possess  this  Wordsworthian  simplicity;  but  many 
of  them  are  tinged  with  a  vague  mysticism. 

Yeats  is  the  greatest  poet  Ireland  has  yet  produced; 
if  we  may  accept  Masefield's  estimate,  he  is  also  the  great- 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  451 

est  living  poet.  "Unhappy  Ireland,"  says  Mary  C.  Stur- 
geon in  her  Studies  of  Contemporary  Poets,  "is  at  least 
happy  in  her  laureate.  The  poet  of  dreams,  of  patriotism 
and  proud  humility,  of  old  legend  and  song,  of  sweet 
sorrow  and  bitter  joy,  of  a  land  and  a  people  beyond  the 
world — this  is  indeed  the  poet  of  Ireland ;  and  it  does  not 
matter  if  no  hand  has  ever  set  the  wreath  upon  his  brow." 
Yeats  has  discovered  and  developed  most  of  the  members 
of  the  Irish  group,  which  includes  Lord  Dunsany,  "^E" 
(George  William  Russell),  Francis  Ledwidge,  who  was 
killed  in  France,  and  the  most  brilliant  of  the  Irish 
dramatists,  the  late  John  Millington  Synge.  There  is  a 
poetic  strain  even  in  those  Irish  writers  who,  like  Dun- 
sany and  Synge,  write  mainly  in  prose.  Earlier  Irish 
authors,  like  Swift,  Steele,  Goldsmith,  Burke,  Sheridan, 
and  Moore,  were  essentially  English.  Yeats  and  his 
fellow-writers  have  added  a  new  field  to  British  literature 
in  Irish  legend  and  Irish  life.  We  quote  one  of  Yeats's 
many  excellent  short  lyrics,  for  Yeats  is  probably  the 
only  great  living  poet  of  whom  it  can  be  said  that  his  best 
work  has  been  done  in  the  lyric. 

WHEN  YOU  ARE  OLD  AND  GRAY 

When  you  are  old  and  gray  and  full  of  sleep, 
And  nodding  by  the  fire,  take  down  this  book, 
And  slowly  read,  and  dream  of  the  soft  look 
Your  eyes  had  once,  and  of  their  shadows  deep; 

How  many  loved  your  moments  of  glad  grace, 
And  loved  your  beauty  with  love  false  or  true; 
But  one  man  loved  the  pilgrim  soul  in  you, 
And  loved  the  sorrows  of  your  changing  face. 


452  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

And  bending  down  beside  the  glowing  bars 
Murmur,  a  little  sadly,  how  love  fled 
And  paced  upon  the  mountains  overhead 
And  hid  his  face  amid  a  crowd  of  stars. 

William  Butler  Yeats  (1865-  ) 

Although  hardly  a  typical  conservative,  Alfred  Noyes 
in  the  main  impresses  one  as  a  belated  Victorian.  He  is 
much  more  interested  in  England's  past  than  any  of  his 
fellow-poets.  His  versification,  his  diction,  his  subjects 
often  recall  Swinburne,  Tennyson,  or  Keats.  Too  often 
also  he  seems  to  be  trying  to  express  something  which  has 
already  been  effectively  said  by  some  older  poet.  In  his 
political  and  social  as  well  as  in  his  poetic  ideals,  he  is 
with  the  majority  of  his  generation.  He  has,  like  Ten- 
nyson and  Longfellow,  the  faculty  of  saying  in  not  too 
literary  a  manner  what  the  average  reader  of  poetry  is 
thinking;  hence  he  has  been  enormously  popular.  His 
popularity  with  the  masses,  as  in  the  case  of  Longfellow, 
has  caused  some  critics  to  deny  him  any  poetic  merit. 
This  is  manifestly  unfair.  A  man  may  be  a  genuine  poet 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  is  not  a  startlingly  original 
thinker.  Noyes's  poetry,  however,  does  to  a  considerable 
degree  reflect  modern  English  life  and  thought.  Perhaps 
the  fact  that  his  wife  is  an  American  accounts  in  part 
for  his  interest  in  this  country  and  in  what  he  would  call 
the  Anglo-American  "mission." 

Noyes's  technical  skill,  possibly  his  chief  claim  to  fame, 
is  little  short  of  marvelous.  He  is  equally  at  home  in  the 
ballad  stanza,  the  sonnet,  blank  verse,  and  in  the  various 
lyric  forms.  His  best  poems  are,  by  general  consent,  his 
ballads,  among  which  "The  Highwayman"  and  "Forty 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  453 

Singing  Seamen"  are  probably  the  best.  His  collected 
poems  contain  many  other  excellent  narratives,  the  best 
of  which  perhaps  are  the  Tales  of  the  Mermaid  Tavern 
and  Drake,  a  romance  of  Elizabethan  England. 

John  Masefield's  early  life  taught  him  many  things 
which  poets  who,  like  Noyes,  Tennyson,  and  Wordsworth, 
go  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  seldom  have  an  opportunity 
to  learn.  At  an  early  age  he  ran  away  and  went  to  sea. 
As  a  result  of  his  experience  as  a  sailor,  he  is  better  able 
to  picture  the  sea  than  any  other  writer  except  such 
novelists  as  Conrad,  Melville,  and  Cooper,  all  of  whom 
learned  the  sailor's  life  from  actual  experience.  Mase- 
field  had  many  other  unusual  experiences  before  he  began 
his  career  as  poet.  Once  for  a  living  he  was  forced  to 
work  as  assistant  in  a  New  York  barroom ;  his  experience 
there  has  occasioned  an  interesting  sonnet  by  William 
Rose  Benet.  Unlike  most  poets,  Masefield  has  seen  life 
from  below  as  well  as  from  above ;  and  in  his  poems  he 
has  described  the  life  of  the  lowly  which  until  compara- 
tively recent  times  got  into  literature  none  too  often. 
Salt  Water  Poems  and  Ballads,  somewhat  in  the  vein  of 
Kipling,  was  his  first  volume;  but  it  was  The  Everlasting 
Mercy  and  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street  which  brought 
him  recognition.  These  two  narratives  are  full  of  vivid 
pictures  of  the  hard  life  of  the  poor;  they  fill  the  reader 
with  a  sense  of  the  injustice  of  the  social  order  which 
condemns  certain  individuals  to  a  life  of  toil  and  suffering. 

Like  most  poets,  Masefield  owes  his  awakening  to  a  poet 
whom  he  read  at  a  critical  time.  Milton  seems  to  have 
been  first  stimulated  to  write  poetry  by  a  reading  of 
Spenser,  "the  poet's  poet."  It  was  Spenser  also  who 


454  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

awakened  Keats ;  and  it  was  Keats  who  seems  to  have  been 
the  inspiration  of  Amy  Lowell.  We  quote  Masefield's  own 
account  of  his  first  reading  of  Chaucer,  who  gave  him  his 
first  conception  of  what  poetry  might  mean  to  him:  "I 
did  not  begin  to  read  poetry  with  passion  and  system  until 
1896.  I  was.  living  then  in  Yonkers,  N.  Y.  (at  8  Maple 
Street),  Chaucer  was  the  poet,  and  the  Parliament  of 
Fowls  the  poem,  of  my  conversion.  I  read  the  Parliament 
all  through  one  Sunday  afternoon,  with  the  feeling  that  I 
had  been  kept  out  of  my  inheritance  and  had  then  sud- 
denly entered  upon  it,  and  had  found  it  a  new  world  of 
wonder  and  delight.  I  had  never  realized,  until  then,  what 
poetry  could  be." 

Although  the  influence  of  Shakespeare,  Kipling,  and 
other  poets  is  to  be  seen  in  his  work,  the  influence  of 
Chaucer  is  the  strongest  to  be  found  there.  His  later 
poems  are  less  full  of  a  rather  lurid  realism  than  The 
Everlasting  Mercy.  Masefield  is  perhaps  no  longer  to  be 
classed  with  the  radical  poets ;  certainly  no  tag  describes 
his  later  verse,  which  is  in  harmony  with  the  best  tradi- 
tions of  English  poetry.  His  subject  matter  and  his 
diction  are  new,  but  the  metrical  forms  which  he  employs 
are  in  the  main  the  older  forms  used  by  Chaucer,  Shake- 
speare, and  Scott.  Though  he  has  written  some  excel- 
lent lyrics  and  many  good  Shakespearean  sonnets,  his 
best  poems  are  probably  his  narrative  poems,  Dauber, 
The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street,  Reynard  the  Fox,  Enslaved, 
and  Right  Royal.  The  poem  which  we  quote,  although 
more  characteristic  of  the  earlier  Masefield,  furnishes  an 
excellent  illustration  of  the  difference  in  spirit  and  subject 
between  the  new  and  the  older  poets.  This  poem  is  pre- 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  455 

fixed  to   Masefield's   Collected  Poems   as   indicating  his 
poetic  aims. 

A  CONSECRATION 

Not  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged  charioteers 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap  the  fat  of  the  years, — 
Rather  the  scorned — the  rejected — the  men  hemmed  in  with 
the  spears; 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 
Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries, 
The  men  with  the  broken  heads  and  the  blood  running  into 
their  eyes. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Commander,  beloved  of  the  throne, 
Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown, 
But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known. 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the  road, 
The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with  the 

goad, 
The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load. 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout, 
The  chantyman  bent  at  the  halliards  putting  a  tune  to  the 

shout, 
The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel  and  the  tired  lookout. 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  mirth, 
The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth ; — 
Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the 
earth ! 

THEIRS  be  the  music,  the  colour,  the  glory,  the  gold; 
MINE  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 


456  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the 

cold — 
Of   these   shall   my   songs   be   fashioned,   my   tales   be   told. 

AMEN. 

John  Mase field  (1878-  ) 

In  the  following  poem  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  suggests 
the  change  in  his  own  poetic  ideals  which  corresponds  in 
general  to  that  we  note  in  passing  from  the  Victorian 
poets  to  those  of  the  present  time. 

PRELUDE 

As  one,  at  midnight,  wakened  by  the  call 
Of  golden-plovers  in  their  seaward  flight, 
Who  lies  and  listens,  as  the  clear  notes  fall 
Through  tingling  silence  of  the  frosty  night — 
Who  lies  and  listens,  till  the  last  note  fails, 
And  then,  in  fancy,  faring  with  the  flock 
Far  over  slumbering  hills  and  dreaming  dales, 
Soon  hears  the  surges  break  on  reef  and  rock; 
And,  hearkening,  till  all  sense  of  self  is  drowned 
Within  the  mightier  music  of  the  deep, 
No  more  remembers  the  sweet  piping  sound 
That  startled  him  from  dull,  undreaming  sleep; 
So  I,  first  waking  from  oblivion,  heard, 
With  heart  that  kindled  to  the  call  of  song, 
The  voice  of  young  life,  fluting  like  a  bird, 
And  echoed  that  light  lilting;  till,  ere  long, 
Lured  onward  by  that  happy  singing-flight, 
I  caught  the  stormy  summons  of  the  sea, 
And  dared  the  restless  deeps  that,  day  and  night, 
Surge  with  the  life-song  of  humanity. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  (1878-  ) 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  457 

In  America  the  break  with  the  older  poetic  tradition  is 
more  marked  than  in  England ;  we  have  few  living  poets 
who  can  be  classed  as  conservative.  The  only  older  Ameri- 
can poets  who  exert  any  appreciable  influence  on  contem- 
porary poetry  are  Poe  and  Whitman,  neither  of  whom 
was  a  New  Englander.  Contemporary  American  poets 
endorse  Poe's  oft-affirmed  conviction  that  the  business  of 
poetry  is  not  morality  but  beauty.  Whitman's  influence, 
as  we  have  already  suggested,  is  much  greater.  In  his 
use  of  free  verse,  in  his  American  themes,  and  in  his  hatred 
of  conventional  poetic  diction  Whitman  was  clearly  a 
forerunner  of  the  new  poets.  Whitman's  "Poets  to 
to  Come"  seems  almost  prophetic: 

Poets  to  come !  orators,  singers,  musicians  to  come ! 

Not  to-day  is  to  justify  me  and  answer  what  I  am  for, 

But  you,  a  new  brood,  native,  athletic,  continental,  greater 

than  before  known, 
Arouse!  for  you  must  justify  me. 

Poets  and  critics  of  today,  even  those  who  were  born 
in  New  England,  have  little  sympathy  with  the  older 
poets  of  that  section.  Tht  poems  of  Longfellow,  Holmes, 
Whittier,  and  Lowell,  we  are  reminded,  were  often  vitiated 
by  their  provincialism,  their  prudish  reticence,  their  in- 
cessant moralizing.  Even  the  conservative  Edmund  Clar- 
ence Stedman,  after  compiling  his  American  Anthology, 
said  to  a  friend  that  what  this  country  needed  was  some 
"adult  male  verse."  Louis  Untermeyer,  a  contemporary 
poet  and  critic,  refers  to  the  work  of  the  older  New 
England  poets  as  "poems  of  the  insistently  didactic  type, 
— where  all  things  in  and  out  of  nature,  from  a  cham- 


458  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

bered  nautilus  to  a  village  blacksmith,  are  used  to  point  a 
specious  and  usually  irrelevant  moral."  A  contemporary 
American  poet  has  cleverly  expressed  the  attitude  of  his 
fellows  in  a  Shakespearean  sonnet. 

CERTAIN  AMERICAN  POETS 

They  cowered  inert  before  the  study  fire 

While  mighty  winds  were  ranging  wide  and  free, 

Urging  their  torpid  fancies  to  aspire 

With  "Euhoe !   Bacchus  !   Have  a  cup  of  tea." 

They  tripped  demure   from  church  to   lecture-hall, 
Shunning  the  snare  of  farthingales  and  curls, 
Woman  they  thought  half  angel  and  half  doll, 
The  Muses'  temple  a  boarding-school  for  girls. 

Quaffing  Pierian  draughts  from  Boston  pump, 
They  toiled  to  prove  their  homiletic  art 
Could  match  with   nasal  twang  and  pulpit  thump 
In  maxims  glib  of  meeting-house  and  mart. 

Serenely  their  ovine  admirers  graze. 
Apollo  wears  frock-coats,  the  Muses  stays. 

Odell  Shepard  (1884-  ) 

It  is  true  that  Longfellow  thought  it  "exquisite  to  read 
good  novels  in  bed  with  wax  lights  in  silver  candlesticks." 
It  is  true  also  that  after  reading  Fremont's  account  of  a 
journey  through  the  Rockies,  he  wrote  in  his  journal: 
"What  a  wild  life,  and  what  a  fresh  kind  of  existence! 
But  ah,  the  discomforts !"  And  yet  the  sonnet  we  have 
quoted  is  not  wholly  just  even  to  Longfellow,  the  pet 
aversion  of  the  American  poets  of  today.  It  is  a  char- 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  459 

acteristic  of  every  new  movement  in  literature  that  it 
begins  by  rebelling  against  the  traditions  set  by  its  pre- 
decessors. Hence  we  do  not  look  to  poets  for  sound  lit- 
erary criticism.  Doubtless  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Holmes, 
and  Whittier  have  been  considerably  overrated  and,  worse 
still,  praised  for  their  poorest  work;  but  the  poets  of 
today  will  have  to  face  the  same  process  of  re-valuation 
in  the  next  generation.  That  there  is  still  life  in  the  older 
poetic  tradition  is  the  opinion  of  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  an 
English  poet  now  living  in  this  country. 

THE  ETERNAL  WAY 

I  take  no  shame  that  still  I  sing  the  rose 

And  the  young  moon,  and  Helen's  face  and  spring; 

And  strive  to  fill  my  song  with  sound  of  streams 

And  light  of  dreams; 

Choosing  some  beautiful  eternal  thing, 

That  ever  comes  like  April — and  ever  goes. 

I  have  no  envy  of  those  dusty  themes 

Born  of  the  sweat  and  clamor  of  the  hour — 

Dust  unto  dust  returning — nor  any  shame  have  I, 

'Mid  sack  of  towns,  to  ponder  on  a  flower: 

For  still  the  sorrow  of  Troy-town  is  mine, 

And  the  great  Hector  scarce  is  dead  an  hour. 

All  heroes,  and  all  lovers,  that  came  to  die 

Make  pity's  eyes  with  grief  immortal  shine; 

Yea !  still  my  cheeks  are  wet 

For  little  Juliet, 

And  many  a  broken-hearted  lover's  tale, 

Told  by  the  nightingale. 

Nor  have  I  shame  to  strive  the  ancient  way, 

With  rime  that  runs  to  meet  its  sister  rime, 


460  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Or  in  some  meter  that  hath  learnt  from  Time 
The  heart's  own  chime. 
These  ways  are  not  more  old 
Than  the  unmeditated  modern  lay, 
And  all  those  little  heresies  of  song 
Already  old  when  Homer  still  was  young. 

Richard  Le   Gallienne   (1866-  ) 

The  aims  of  the  radical  poets,  both  British  and  Ameri- 
can, have  been  best  expressed  by  the  group  known  as  the 
Imagists.  The  best  known  members  of  this  varying  group 
are  Richard  Aldington,  D.  H.  Lawrence,  and  T.  S.  Flint, 
all  Englishmen;  and  three  Americans,  "H.  D."  (Mrs. 
Richard  Aldington,  nee  Hilda  Doolittle),  John  Gould 
Fletcher,  and  Amy  Lowell.  In  1915  they  prefixed  to  a 
collection  of  their  work,  Some  Imagist  Poems,  six  rules 
for  the  writing  of  poetry.  We  quote  in  part  the  first 
four: 

1.  To  use  the  language  of  common  speech,  but  to  employ 
always  the  exact  word,  not  the  nearly  exact,  nor  the  merely 
decorative  word. 

2.  To    create    new    rhythms — as    the    expressions    of    new 
moods — and  not  to  copy  old  rhythms,  which  merely  echo  old 
moods.      We   do    not   insist   upon    "free   verse"    as    the   only 
method  of  writing  poetry.     We  fight  for  it  as  a  principle  of 
liberty.     We  believe  that  the  individuality  of  the  poet  may 
often  be  better  expressed  in  free  verse  than  in  conventional 
forms.     In  poetry,  a  new  cadence  means  a  new  idea. 

3.  To  allow  absolute  freedom  in  the  choice  of  subject.   .  .   . 
We    believe    passionately    in    the    artistic    value    of    modern 
life.  .  .  . 

4.  To  present  an  image  (hence  the  name  "Imagist").     We 
are  not  a  school  of  painters,  but  we  believe  that  poetry  should 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  461 

render  particulars  exactly  and  not  deal  in  vague  generalities, 
however  magnificent  and  sonorous.  .  .  . 

As  the  Imagists  themselves  state,  these  principles  are 
not  new  but  fallen  into  disuse.  Had  they  wished  to  appeal 
to  the  history  of  poetry  for  precedent,  they  could  have 
found  a  striking  example  of  these  Imagist  principles  in 
the  Preface  which  Wordsworth  prefixed  to  the  1800  edi- 
tion of  The  Lyrical  Ballads.  Wordsworth  argued  for 
freer  choice  of  subject,  for  writing  with  one's  eye  on  the 
object  described,  and  for  the  abandonment  of  a  conven- 
tional poetic  diction  in  favor  of  a  language  drawn  from 
the  living  speech  of  the  people.  The  Imagists,  in  their 
desire  to  get  away  from  conventions,  like  Wordsworth, 
lay  down  rules  which  it  is  impossible  always  to  live  up  to. 
Like  him,  they  find  it  difficult  to  limit  themselves  to  "the 
language  of  common  speech";  and  sometimes,  like  him, 
they  fall  into  the  hackneyed  diction  and  the  "inversions" 
which  they  condemn.  But  the  new  poets  have  pretty 
effectively  freed  poetry  of  such  trite  expressions  as  O 
thou,  'mongst,  doth,  e'en,  erst,  and  whilom. 

The  following  poem  by  "H.  D."  is  typical  of  Imagist 
poetry  except  that  it  is  more  compact  and  highly  finished 
than  most  other  compositions  in  free  verse.  An  oread  is  a 
mountain  nymph. 

OREAD 

Whirl  up,  sea — 
Whirl  your  pointed  pines. 
Splash  your  great  pines 
On  our  rocks. 


462  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Hurl  your  green  over  us — 
Cover  us  with  your  pools  of  fir. 

"H.  D."  (1886-  ) 

In  discussing  the  Imagists  we  have  departed  from  the 
order  of  chronology.  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  is  the 
pioneer  of  living  American  poets  and  the  greatest  of  them 
all.  He  is,  in  our  opinion,  a  more  painstaking  artist  than 
any  other  living  poet.  Although  he  has  been  writing  and 
publishing  poems  for  twenty-five  years,  not  until  six  or 
seven  years  ago  did  he  really  begin  to  get  a  hearing.  He 
is  even  now  much  less  widely  known  than  he  deserves  to 
be;  for  his  poems,  like  Browning's,  are  not  easy  to  read. 
His  best  poems  are  narrative.  "Ben  Jonson  Entertains 
a  Man  from  Stratford"  is  not  only  one  of  the  finest 
dramatic  monologues  ever  written;  it  is  also  the  best 
characterization  of  Shakespeare  ever  written  in  verse. 

The  great  majority  of  recent  poems  do  not  come  up  to 
the  level  of  the  classics  that  we  all  know.  Now  and  then, 
however,  we  come  across  a  new  poem  like  "The  Dark 
Hills'*  so  perfect  in  conception  and  phrasing  that  one  re- 
calls Holmes's  comment  upon  a  passage  in  Emerson's 
"Voluntaries,"  "These  lines,  a  moment  after  they  were 
written,  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  carved  on  marble  for  a 
thousand  years."  Could  anything  be  more  nearly  perfect 
than  the  two  poems  which  are  given  below? 

THE  DARK  HILLS 

Dark  hills  at  evening  in  the  west, 
Where  sunset  hovers  like  a  sound 
Of  golden  horns  that  sang  to  rest 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  463 

Old  bones  of  warriors  under  ground, 
Far  now  from  all  the  bannered  ways 
Where  flash  the  legions  of  the  sun, 
You  fade — as  if  the  last  of  days 
Were  fading,  and  all  wars  were  done. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  (1869-  ) 

MONADNOCK  THROUGH  THE  TREES 

Before  there  was  in  Egypt  any  sound 
Of  those  who  reared  a  more  prodigious  means 
For  the  self-heavy  sleep  of  kings  and  queens 
Than  hitherto  had  mocked  the  most  renowned, — 
Unvisioned  here  and  waiting  to  be  found, 
Alone,  amid  remote  and  older  scenes, 
You  loomed  above  ancestral  evergreens 
Before  there  were  the  first  of  us  around. 

And  when  the  last  of  us,  if  we  know  how, 
See  farther  from  ourselves  than  we  do  now, 
Assured   with   other   sights   than   heretofore 
That  we  have  done  our  mortal  best  and  worst, — 
Your  calm  will  be  the  same  as  when  the  first 
Assyrians  went  howling  south  to  war. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson   (1869-  ) 

Although  Robinson  and  Amy  Lowell  are  also  New 
England  poets,  Robert  Frost,  born  in  San  Francisco,  is 
the  distinctive  poet  of  contemporary  New  England.  Two 
of  Frost's  poems,  "Mending  Wall"  and  "The  Tuft  of 
Flowers,"  are  quoted  in  Chapter  V,  to  which  the  reader  is 
referred  for  further  discussion  of  Frost's  poetry. 

The  Illinois  poets,  Vachel  Lindsay,  Edgar  Lee  Masters, 
and  Carl  Sandburg,  are,  as  we  should  expect  from  their 


464  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Western  origin,  more  given  to  innovation  than  the  East- 
ern poets.  Vachel  Lindsay  is  a  sort  of  Puritan  trouba- 
dour; and  his  poems  are,  in  Louis  Untermeyer's  phrase, 
a  curious  "mixture  of  rhymes,  rag-time,  and  religion." 
Lindsay  has  described  his  own  poetry  as  "the  Higher 
Vaudeville."  He  wishes  to  bring  poetry  back  to  the 
people,  to  make  it  a  matter  of  supreme  importance  to 
every  American.  He  once  tramped  over  a  large  part  of 
the  United  States  preaching  the  Gospel  of  Beauty,  ob- 
taining his  food  and  lodging  by  exchanging  his  Rhymes 
to  be  Traded  for  Bread.  Poetry,  he  maintains,  is  an 
oral  art,  meant  for  the  ear  and  not  for  the  eye.  Hence  he 
recites  his  poems  in  dramatic  fashion,  and  in  his  pub- 
lished verse  often  supplies  printed  directions  as  to  how  it 
should  be  read.  Among  the  best  of  his  longer  poems  we 
may  mention  "On  the  Building  of  Springfield"  and 
"Abraham  Lincoln  Walks  at  Midnight,"  already  quoted, 
"The  Congo,"  "The  Chinese  Nightingale,"  and  "General 
William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven."  The  short  poem 
which  we  quote  below  recalls  Swinburne,  whom  Lindsay 
greatly  admires.  Its  subject,  John  P.  Altgeld,  was  prom- 
inent in  Middle  Western  politics  a  generation  ago. 

THE  EAGLE  THAT  IS  FORGOTTEN 

Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone. 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there,  and  the  clay  has  its  own. 

"We  have  buried  him  now/'  thought  your  foes,  and  in  secret 

rej  oiced. 
They  made   a   brave   show  of   their   mourning,  their   hatred 

unvoiced. 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  465 

They  had  snarled  at  you,  barked  at  you,  foamed  at  you  day 

after  day; 
Now  you  were  ended.     They  praised  you  .  .  .  and  laid  you 

away. 

The  others  that  mourned  you  in  silence  and  terror  and  truth, 
The  widow  bereft  of  her  crust,  and  the  boy  without  youth, 
The  mocked  and  the  scorned  and  the  wounded,  the  lame  and 

the  poor, 
That    should    have    remembered    forever  .  .  .  remember    no 

more. 

Where  are  those  lovers  of  yours,  on  what  name  do  they  call — 
The  lost,  that  in  armies  wept  over  your  funeral  pall? 
They  call  on  the  names  of  a  hundred  high-valiant  ones; 
A  hundred  white  eagles  have  risen,  the  sons  of  your  sons. 
The  zeal  in  their  wings  is  a  zeal  that  your  dreaming  began, 
The  valor  that  wore  out  your  soul  in  the  service  of  man. 

Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone. 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there  and  the  clay  has  its  own. 
Sleep   on,   O  brave-hearted,   O   wise  man,   that   kindled   the 

flame — 

To  live  in  mankind  is  far  more  than  to  live  in  a  name; 
To  live  in  mankind,  far,  far  more  .  .  .  than  to  live  in  a  name. 

Vachel  Lindsay  (1879-  ) 

Edgar  Lee  Masters  has  published  several  volumes  of 
verse,  but  he  is  known  for  one  book,  the  Spoon  River 
Anthology.  This  volume  is  in  reality  a  collection  of  short 
stories,  which  twenty  years  ago  would  probably  have  been 
written  in  prose.  It  is  perhaps  significant  that  Masters 
has  published  a  novel,  Mitch  Miller.  More  recently,  how- 
ever, he  has  returned  to  poetry  in  Domesday  Book,  a  long 


466  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

narrative  in  blank  verse  which  has   been   compared   to 
Browning's  Ring  and  the  Book. 

Masters  himself  has  admitted  that  the  title  and  the 
original  idea  of  his  Spoon  River  Anthology  were  derived 
from  the  Greek  Anthology,  a  collection  of  short  poems 
by  many  authors.  Like  Chaucer's  Prologue  and 
the  Divine  Comedy  of  Dante,  the  Spoon  River  An- 
thology is  a  collection  of  portraits, — many  of  them  such 
as  one  finds  in  a  rogues'  gallery.  The  plan  of  the  book  is 
unique.  The  poet  goes  to  the  cemetery  in  the  decaying 
village  of  Spoon  River  and  summons  the  spirits  of  the 
dead  to  come  forth  and  tell  the  stories  of  their  lives.  In 
the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  term,  these  miniature 
autobiographies  are  not  often  poetical,  but  they  are  vivid 
and  powerful.  Possibly  Masters's  profession — he  is  a 
criminal  lawyer  in  Chicago — accounts  in  part  for  the 
pessimism  and  cynicism  of  many  of  the  sketches.  The 
best  known  poem  in  the  collection,  "Anne  Rutledge,"  we 
are  unable  to  quote.  The  two  selections  which  we  give 
seem  fairly  representative. 

GEORGE  GRAY 

I  have  studied  many  times 
The  marble  which  was  chiseled  for  me — 
A  boat  with  a  furled  sail  at  rest  in  a  harbor. 
In  truth  it  pictures  not  my  destination 
But  my  life. 

For  love  was  offered  me  and  I  shrank  from  its  disillusion- 
ment; 

Sorrow  knocked  at  my  door,  but  I  was  afraid; 
Ambition  called  to  me,  but  I  dreaded  the  chances. 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  467 

Yet  all  the  while  I  hungered  for  meaning  in  my  life. 

And  now  I  know  that  we  must  lift  the  sail 

And  catch  the  winds  of  destiny 

Wherever  they  drive  the  boat. 

To  put  meaning  in  one's  life  may  end  in  madness, 

But  life  without  meaning  is  the  torture 

Of  restlessness  and  vague  desire — 

It  is  a  boat  longing  for  the  sea  and  yet  afraid. 

Edgar  Lee  Masters  (1869-  ) 

JOHN  HANCOCK  OTIS 

As  to  democracy,  fellow  citizens, 

Are  you  not  prepared  to  admit 

That  I,  who  inherited  riches  and  was  to  the  manner  born, 

Was  second  to  none  in  Spoon  River 

In  my  devotion  to  the  cause  of  Liberty? 

While  my  contemporary,  Anthony  Findlay, 

Born  in  a  shanty  and  beginning  life 

As  a  water  carrier  to  the  section  hands, 

Then  becoming  a  section  hand  when  he  was  grown, 

Afterwards  foreman  of  the  gang,  until  he  rose 

To  the  superintendency  of  the  railroad, 

Living  in  Chicago, 

Was  a  veritable  slave  driver, 

Grinding  the  faces  of  labor, 

And  a  bitter  enemy  of  democracy. 

And  I  say  to  you,  Spoon  River, 

And  to  you,  O  republic, 

Beware  of  the  man  who  rises  to  power 

From  one  suspender. 

Edgar  Lee  Masters   (1869-  ) 

Carl  Sandburg,  the  only  contemporary  poet  of  first 
importance  who  limits  himself  to  free  verse,  is  of  Swedish 
descent,  and  is  by  profession  a  Chicago  journalist.  Like 


468  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Masefield  and  Masters,  he  has  been  charged  with  "bru- 
tality" ;  but  if  his  poems  lack  polish  and  good  taste,  they 
have  great  power.  Synge,  the  Irish  dramatist,  was  of 
the  opinion  that  before  poetry  could  be  made  human 
again,  it  would  have  to  learn  to  be  brutal.  Sandburg  is 
perhaps  too  much  of  a  propagandist  to  be  a  consistent 
artist;  but  his  poems  are  full  of  a  hatred  of  injustice  and 
are  filled  with  sympathy  for  poverty  and  suffering.  More 
than  any  other  poet  of  our  time,  he  has  endeavored  to 
write  the  poetry  of  life  in  large  cities.  His  best  known 
poem,  "Chicago,"  has  been  quoted  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter. 

Although  we  have  not  space  enough  to  discuss  other 
living  poets  in  detail,  we  must  at  least  mention  by  name 
other  American  poets  of  importance,  such  as  Sara  Teas- 
dale  (Mrs.  Filsinger),  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  John 
Hall  Wheelock,  James  Oppenheim,  Edwin  Markham, 
Josephine  Preston  Peabody  (Mrs.  Lionel  Marks),  Anna 
Hempstead  Branch,  Adelaide  Crapsey,  Witter  Bynner, 
Ezra  Pound,  Louis  Untermeyer,  William  Rose  Benet, 
Stephen  Vincent  Benet,  Christopher  Morley,  Arthur 
Guiterman,  Conrad  Aiken,  Cale  Young  Rice,  Lola  Ridge, 
Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  and  Percy  Mackaye.  Many  other 
names  will  be  found  in  any  good  anthology  of  contem- 
porary verse. 

It  should  be  noted  that  the  production  of  poetry  in  the 
English  language  is  no  longer  confined  to  England  and 
the  United  States.  We  can  no  longer  ignore  the  work 
of  poets  in  Canada,  Australia,  and  other  British  colonies. 
John  McCrae,  the  author  of  "In  Flanders  Fields,"  and 
Eliot  Napier,  whose  "All  Men  are  Free"  has  been  quoted, 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  469 

are  British  colonials.  A  better  known  poet,  Rabindranath 
Tagore,  comes  from  India.  A  few  years  ago  Tagore's 
poetry  was  enormously  popular  among  those  superficial 
readers  who  are  always  looking  for  some  new  sensation; 
but  the  comparative  unpopularity  into  which  his  work 
has  fallen  since  the  war  should  not  cause  us  to  overlook 
his  real  importance.  In  the  original  Bengali,  Tagore's 
poems  possess  both  meter  and  rime;  in  their  English 
form,  as  translated  by  Tagore  himself,  they  are  perhaps 
best  classed  as  free  verse.  Since  poems  in  which  verbal 
melody  or  the  subtle  associations  of  words  form  the 
dominant  interest  are  most  difficult  to  translate,  we  have 
selected  for  quotation  from  Tagore's  Gitanjali  (Song 
Offerings)  a  poem  in  which  the  thought  is  the  major 
element.  We  have  entitled  it 

A  PRAYER  FOR  INDIA 

Where  the  mind  is  without  fear  and  the  head  is  held  high; 

Where  knowledge  is  free; 

Where  the  world  has  not  been  broken  up  into  fragments  by 

narrow  domestic  walls; 

Where  words  come  out  from  the  depths  of  truth; 
Where  tireless  striving  stretches  its  arms  towards  perfection; 
Where  the  clear  stream  of  reason  has  not  lost  its  way  into 

the  dreary  desert  sand  of  dead  habit; 
Where  the  mind  is  led  forward  by  thee  into  ever-widening 

thought  and  action — 
Into   that  heaven   of   freedom,   my   Father,   let   my    country 

awake.- 

Rabindranath  Tagore   (1861-  ) 

The  differences  between  contemporary  and  older  poets 
are  clearly  seen  in  their  use  of  war  as  poetic  material. 


470  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

As  in  their  treatment  of  other  themes,  the  new  poets  have 
not  re-echoed  many  of  the  conventional  notes  of  older 
poetry.  It  seems  worth  while  to  develop  this  point  in 
some  detail  in  a  discussion  of  the  poetry  occasioned  by 
the  World  War. 

The  most  striking  thing  about  recent  war  poetry  is 
that  much  of  it  has  been  written  by  the  soldiers  them- 
selves. Not  being  either  professional  soldiers  or  pro- 
fessional patriotic  poets,  they  have  described  war  as  they 
saw  it  with  their  own  eyes — a  horrible  thing,  defensible 
only  as  a  means  to  a  great  end.  Modern  war  poetry, 
accordingly,  is  not  romantic  but  realistic. 

In  primitive  times  the  chief  business  of  the  bard  was  to 
celebrate  the  warlike  deeds  of  his  lord  and  to  incite  the 
warriors  to  fight.  The  poet's  praise  was  fame.  Of  those 
chieftains  who  died  "unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung," 
Pope  says, 

Vain  was  the  chief's,  the  sage's  pride! 
They  had  no  poet,,  and  they  died. 

In  later  days  war  poetry  took  often  the  form  of  a 
narrow  jingoistic  patriotism.  Like  Stephen  Decatur,  the 
poet  felt  bound  to  sanction  the  stand  of  his  country, 
right  or  wrong.  A  striking  instance  of  this  is  found  in 
Shakespeare's  Henry  V.  King  Henry's  war  of  aggres- 
sion against  the  French  had  as  little  justification  as 
Germany's  attack  upon  Belgium;  and  the  King's  speech 
to  the  inhabitants  of  Harfleur,  in  the  third  scene  of  the 
third  act,  is  morally  almost  as  infamous  as  the  German 
ultimatum  to  the  Belgian  government.  It  is  unfair,  how- 
ever, to  expect  even  a  great  poet  to  be  in  all  respects 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  471 

ahead  of  his  age.  It  is  something  to  be  grateful  for  that 
while  Germany  was  chanting  her  "Hymn  of  Hate,"  Eng- 
land and  America  had  to  a  great  extent  outgrown  this 
primitive  form  of  patriotism. 

"Peace  hath  her  victories  no  less  renowned  than  War," 
wrote  Milton ;  but  peace  has  never  appealed  to  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  poet  as  war  has  done.  Possibly  the  true 
explanation  of  this  has  been  given  in  William  James's 
brilliant  essay,  "The  Moral  Equivalent  of  War."  "Our 
ancestors,"  he  says,  "have  bred  pugnacity  into  our  bone 
and  marrow,  and  thousands  of  years  of  peace  won't  breed 
it  out  of  us."  That  perhaps  is  why  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  military  life  have  so  great  a  fascination  for  us  all. 
We  cannot  resist 

the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  and  the  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  the  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war, 

to  which  Othello  sadly  bade  farewell.  The  characteristic 
attitude  of  older  war  poets  is  superbly  expressed  in  a 
famous  quatrain  formerly  ascribed  to  Scott,  but  recently 
discovered  to  have  been  written  by  a  certain  Major 
Mordaunt : 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife! 

To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim: 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 

Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 

Yet  we  do  not  mean  to  leave  the  reader  under  the  im- 
pression that  all  the  wars  in  the  past  have  been  unjust 


472  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

or  that  the  poets  have  invariably  glorified  the  worse 
cause.  War  inspires  in  us  the  best  as  well  as  the  worst. 
Many  of  the  poems  occasioned  by  the  American  Revolu- 
tion, the  Civil  War,  and  the  Napoleonic  wars  are  thor- 
oughly modern  in  spirit.  "The  Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic,"  "The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,"  the  "Con- 
cord Hymn,"  and  Coleridge's  "France"  require  no 
apology. 

The  new  feeling  about  war  and  the  poetry  of  war  is 
the  outgrowth  of  democracy  and  internationalism.  Some- 
thing of  the  modern  feeling  is  to  be  found  even  in  Kipling, 
the  laureate  of  the  British  Empire.  In  1897  England 
celebrated  the  sixtieth  anniversary  of  Victoria's  accession 
to  the  throne.  In  the  sixty  years  of  her  reign  the  Empire 
had  grown  enormously  in  size  and  in  power.  Kipling, 
feeling  that  there  was  too  strong  a  disposition  to  boast 
about  the  greatness  of  the  Empire,  wrote  his  "Reces- 
sional" as  a  warning  against  the  Prussian  kind  of  im- 
perialism. In  the  Anglican  church  service  the  hymn  sung 
by  the  retiring  choir  is  called  the  recessional.  The  poem 
has  been  admirably  set  to  music  by  Harry  Rowe  Shelley. 

RECESSIONAL 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 

Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 

Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart — 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  473 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 

An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 

In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — • 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, — 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord!     AMEN. 

Rudyard  Kipling  (1865-  ) 

When  we  examine  the  poetry  inspired  by  the  War  with 
Germany,  we  find  that  the  first  poems  were  written  by 
poets  of  established  reputation  like  Masefield  and  Kipling. 
These  poems  were  written  from  the  civilian  standpoint. 
Vachel  Lindsay's  "Abraham  Lincoln  Walks  at  Midnight," 
quoted  in  the  preceding  chapter,  well  describes  the  usual 
American  reaction  to  the  outbreak  of  the  war  in  1914. 
The  best  expression  of  English  feeling  at  the  outset  is 


474  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

found   in   what   is   still    the   greatest   poem   of  the   war, 
Masefield's  "August,  1914." 

The  feeling  of  the  volunteer  who  has  given  up  home, 
relatives,  friends,  and  career  to  die  for  his  country  is 
well  expressed  in  Rupert  Brooke's  five  sonnets,  "Nineteen- 
Fourteen,"  the  last  of  which  is  quoted  in  the  chapter  on 
the  Sonnet.  Somewhat  the  same  mood  is  expressed  in 
McCrae's  "In  Flanders  Fields"  (see  Chapter  VII)  and 
in  Alan  Seeger's  "I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death." 
Both  these  poems  were  written  by  poets  who  were  unknown 
before  the  war.  Seeger  was  a  young  Harvard  graduate 
who  enlisted  in  the  French  army  and  was  killed  in  France 
in  1916,  nearly  a  year  before  America  entered  the  war. 

I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade, 

When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 

And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air — 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath — 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  475 

Where  love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear.  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

Alan  Seeger  (1888-1916) 


The  War  with  Germany  proved  at  once  a  great  stimu- 
lus to  the  production  of  poetry  and  a  great  interruption 
to  its  composition.  It  called  forth  some  splendid  poems 
from  well-known  poets  like  Noyes,  Masters,  and  Mase- 
field;  it  brought  to  our  attention  some  new  poets  like 
Alan  Seeger,  John  McCrae,  and  Siegfried  Sassoon.  It 
also  practically  put  an  end,  for  four  years,  to  the  poetic 
career  of  Masefield.  The  war  cost  us  the  lives  of  several 
promising  young  poets  who  died  in  the  service,  Rupert 
Brooke,  Julian  Grenfell,  Alan  Seeger,  Joyce  Kilmer,  and 
Francis  Ledwidge.  After  the  death  of  the  Irish  peasant 
poet,  Francis  Ledwidge,  Lord  Dunsany  wrote,  "He  has 
gone  down  in  that  vast  maelstrom  into  which  poets  do 
well  to  adventure  and  from  which  their  country  might  per- 
haps be  wise  to  withhold  them."  Ledwidge  shared 
Dunsany's  opinion  in  part,  for  shortly  before  his  death 
he  wrote : 


It  is  too  late  now  to  retrieve 
A  fallen  dream,  too  late  to  grieve 
A  name  unmade,  but  not  too  late 
To  thank  the  gods  for  what  is  great; 


476  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

A  keen-edged  sword,  a  soldier's  heart, 
Is  greater  than  a  poet's  art. 
And  greater  than  a  poet's  fame 
A  little  grave  that  has  no  name. 

Probably  the  best   elegiac  poem  of  the  war  has  been 
written  by  Laurence  Binyon. 

FOR  THE  FALLEN 

With  proud  thanksgiving,  a  mother  for  her  children, 
England  mourns  for  her  dead  across  the  sea. 
Flesh  of  her  flesh  they  were,  spirit  of  her  spirit, 
Fallen  in  the  cause  of  the  free. 

Solemn  the  drums  thrill:  Death  august  and  royal 
Sings  sorrow  up  into  immortal  spheres. 
There  is  music  in  the  midst  of  desolation 
And  a  glory  that  shines  upon  our  tears. 

They  went  with  songs  to  the  battle,  they  were  young, 
Straight  of  limb,  true  of  eye,  steady  and  aglow. 
They  were  stanch  to  the  end  against  odds  uncounted, 
They  fell  with  their  faces  to  the  foe. 

They  shall  not  grow  old,  as  we  that  are  left  grow  old: 
Age  shall  not  weary  them,  nor  the  years  condemn. 
At  the  going  down  of  the  sun  and  in  the  morning 
We  will  remember  them. 

They  mingle  not  with  their  laughing  comrades  again; 
They  sit  no  more  at  familiar  tables  of  home; 
They  have  no  lot  in  our  labor  of  the  daytime ; 
They  sleep  beyond  England's  foam. 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  477 

But  where  our  desires  are  and  our  hopes  profound, 
Felt  as  a  well-spring  that  is  hidden  from  sight, 
To  the  innermost  heart  of  their  own  land  they  are  known 
As  the  stars  are  known  to  the  Night; 

As  the  stars  that  shall  be  bright  when  we  are  dust, 
Moving  in  marches  upon  the  heavenly  plain ; 
As  the  stars  that  are  starry  in  the  time  of  our  darkness, 
To  the  end,  to  the  end,  they  remain. 

Laurence  Binyon  (1869-  ) 

To  most  of  the  poets  who  saw  active  service,  the  war 
eventually  became  a  matter  of  routine,  a  prosaic  business, 
horrible  when  not  dull.  Some  of  them,  notably  Siegfried 
Sassoon  and  Robert  Graves,  have  undertaken  to  strip  off 
the  traditional  romantic  halo  of  war  and  paint  the  fight- 
ing trade  as  it  really  is.  Certain  other  realistic  poets  like 
Gibson  and  Sandburg,  who  apparently  saw  none  of  the 
fighting,  picture  war  in  the  same  manner.  Sassoon,  who 
is  perhaps  the  ablest  poet  whose  reputation  has  been  made 
by  the  war,  has  said:  "Let  no  one  ever  from  henceforth 
say  a  word  in  any  way  countenancing  war.  .  .  .  For  war 
is  hell  and  those  who  institute  it  are  criminals.  Were 
there  anything  to  say  for  it,  it  should  not  be  said  for  its 
spiritual  disasters  far  outweigh  any  of  its  advantages." 
Many  of  Sassoon's  poems  are  full  of  the  gruesome  details 
which  most  of  us  try  to  forget.  The  fact  that  every  other 
generation  which  has  experienced  the  horrors  of  war  has 
also  tried  to  forget  them  probably  explains  why  the 
second  and  third  generations  imagine  war  as  something 
romantic  and  holy.  This  point  is  brought  out  in  the 
following  poem. 


478  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

SONG-BOOKS  OF  THE  WAR* 

In  fifty  years,  when  peace  outshines 
Remembrance  of  the  battle  lines, 
Adventurous  lads  will  sigh  and  cast 
Proud  looks  upon  the  plundered  past. 
On  summer  morn  or  winter's  night, 
Their  hearts  will  kindle  for  the  fight, 
Reading  a  snatch  of  soldier-song, 
Savage  and  jaunty,  fierce  and  strong; 
And  through  the  angry  marching  rhymes 
Of  blind  regret  and  haggard  mirth, 
They'll  envy  us  the  dazzling  times 
When  sacrifice  absolved  our  earth. 

Some  ancient  man  with  silver  locks 
Will  lift  his  weary  face  to  say: 
"War  was  a  fiend  who  stopped  our  clocks 
Although  we  met  him  grim  and  gay." 
And  then  he'll  speak  of  Haig's  last  drive, 
Marvelling  that  any  came  alive 
Out  of  the  shambles  that  men  built 
And  smashed,  to  cleanse  the  world  of  guilt. 
But  the  boys,  with  grin  and  sidelong  glance, 
Will  think,  "Poor  grandad's  day  is  done," 
And  dream  of  those  who  fought  in  France 
And  lived  in  time  to  see  the  fun. 

Siegfried  Sassoon  (1886-  ) 

The  war  on  the  sea  has  been  best  described  by  Alfred 
Noyes.  The  following  poem  suggests  the  story  of  a 
trawler  which  has  just  come  into  port  from  a  fight  with 
a  German  submarine. 

*  By  permission,  from  Counter-attack  and  Other  Poems,  copyrighted 
by  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company. 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  479 


KILMENY 

Dark,  dark  lay  the  drifters  against  the  red  West, 

As  they  shot  their  long  meshes  of  steel  overside; 
And  the  oily  green  waters  were  rocking  to  rest 

When  Kilmeny  went  out,  at  the  turn  of  the  tide; 
And  nobody  knew  where  that  lassie  would  roam, 

For  the  magic  that  called  her  was  tapping  unseen. 
It  was  well-nigh  a  week  ere  Kilmeny  came  home, 

And  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 

She'd  a  gun  at  her  bow  that  was  Newcastle's  best, 

And  a  gun  at  her  stern  that  was  fresh  from  the  Clyde, 
And  a  secret  her  skipper  had  never  confessed, 

Not  even  at  dawn,  to  his  newly-wed  bride; 
And  a  wireless  that  whispered  above,  like  a  gnome, 

The  laughter  of  London,  the  boasts  of  Berlin.  .  .  . 
O,  it  may  have  been  mermaids  that  lured  her  from  home; 

But  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 

It  was  dark  when  Kilmeny  came  home  from  her  quest 

With  her  bridge  dabbled  red  where  her  skipper  had  died; 
But  she  moved  like  a  bride  with  a  rose  at  her  breast, 

And  Well  done  Kilmeny!  the  Admiral  cried. 
Now,  at  sixty-four  fathom  a  conger  may  come 

And  nose  at  the  bones  of  a  drowned  submarine; 
But — late  in  the  evening  Kilmeny  came  home, 

And  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 

There's  a  wandering  shadow  that  stares  at  the  foam, 

Though  they  sing  all  the  night  to  old  England,  their  queen. 

Late,  late  in  the  evening,  Kilmeny  came  home; 
And  nobody  knew  where  Kilmeny  had  been. 

Alfred  Noyes  (1880-  ) 


480  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

Perhaps  the  most  notable  poem  occasioned  by  the  close 
of  the  World  War  is  Sandburg's  "A.  E.  F."  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  note  that  poets  are  not  historians.  The 
soldiers  of  the  recent  war  were  not  allowed  to  keep  their 
rifles  as  the  soldiers  of  the  Civil  War  seem  to  have  done. 
Does  not  the  effect  obtained  prove  that  this  violation  of 
historical  fact  is  justified? 

A.  E.  F. 

There  will  be  a  rusty  gun  on  the  wall,  sweetheart, 

The  rifle  grooves  curling  with  flakes  of  rust. 

A  spider  will  make  a  silver  string  in  the  darkest,  warmest 

corner  of  it. 

The  trigger  and  the  range-finder,  they  too  will  be  rusty. 
And  no  hands  will  polish  the  gun,  and  it  will  hang  on  the  wall. 
Forefingers    and    thumbs    will    point    absently    and    casually 

toward  it. 
It    will   be    spoken    of    among   half-forgotten,    wished-to-be- 

forgotten  things. 

They  will  tell  the  spider:  Go  on,  you're  doing  good  work. 

Carl  Sandburg  (1878-  ) 

What  shall  we  say,  in  conclusion,  of  the  relative  merits 
of  contemporary  poetry  when  compared  with  that  of 
earlier  periods?  In  making  any  such  comparison,  one 
should  bear  several  things  in  mind.  First,  it  is  unfair  to 
set  off  the  work  of  a  dozen  living  poets  against  the  nu- 
merous poems  written  by  scores  of  poets  in  various 
periods  which  cover  many  centuries.  It  would  be  fairer 
to  compare  the  British  poets  of  today  with  the  Romantic 
poets  of  a  century  ago,  or  the  living  American  poets  with 
the  New  England  poets  of  the  last  century.  Yet  even 


THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS  481 

then  one  must  remember  two  things:  first,  that  many  of 
our  living  poets  probably  still  have  their  best  years  ahead 
of  them  and,  second,  that  the  great  output  of  contem- 
porary verse  is  as  yet  unwinnowed  by  the  hand  of  time. 
This  is  not  the  case  with  the  poets  of  the  Romantic 
Movement.  Here  we  know  at  once  who  the  great  poets 
are:  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Scott,  Byron,  Shelley,  and 
Keats.  In  the  case  of  Wordsworth,  for  instance,  we 
know  that  only  about  a  fourth  of  what  he  wrote  is  worth 
reading  today.  Although  he  died  at  the  age  of  eighty, 
practically  all  his  best  poems  were  composed  in  one  de- 
cade, 1797-1807.  In  the  case  of  a  minor  Romantic  poet 
like  Thomas  Campbell,  only  three  poems  can  be  said  to 
have  lived:  "Hohenlinden,"  "Ye  Mariners  of  England," 
and  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic."  No  one  now  reads  his 
long  poems,  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  and  Gertrude  of 
Wyoming.  For  Frost,  Robinson,  and  Masefield,  the 
sifting  is  yet  to  be  done.  Such  anthologies  as  ours  at- 
tempt it  only  tentatively  and  with  trepidation.  It  is  idle 
to  say  that  all  the  poems  of  these  poets  are  immortal; 
but  who  shall  say  just  which  of  their  poems  will  not  be 
remembered  ? 

The  criticism  of  contemporary  poetry  is  notoriously 
unreliable.  Much  of  it  is  ignorant  or  partisan ;  much  of 
it  is  mere  advertising.  One  should  be  careful  not  to  ac- 
cept without  question  the  estimates  put  upon  the  living 
poets  by  their  publishers  or  their  friends.  Lord  Byron 
attempted  to  forestall  posterity's  estimate  of  his  fellow- 
poets.  At  the  head  of  his  list  he  placed  Crabbe  and 
Rogers,  both  almost  forgotten;  in  the  middle,  Moore  and 
Campbell ;  at  the  end,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  Byron 


482  INTRODUCTION  TO  POETRY 

could  hardly  have  made  a  poorer  guess,  for  though  pos- 
terity has  accepted  his  list,  it  reads  it  backwards. 

While  we  shall,  therefore,  not  attempt  to  estimate  the 
achievement  of  the  poets  of  today,  we  do  wish  to  point  out 
two  things  which  they  have  undoubtedly  accomplished. 
In  the  first  place,  they  have  put  into  their  poetry  much 
of  contemporary  life  and  thought.  Equally  important 
is  the  fact  that  they  have  helped  to  bring  about  an  enor- 
mous revival  of  interest  in  poetry.  While  in  this  country 
in  1918,  John  Masefield  said:  "America  is  making  ready 
for  the  coming  of  a  great  poet.  In  England,  in  the  days 
before  Chaucer,  many  people  were  reading  and  writing 
verse.  Then  he  came.  The  same  intense  interest  in 
poetry  was  shown  again  just  before  the  coming  of  Shake- 
speare. And  now,  in  this  country,  you  are  all  writing 
poems  or  enjoying  them.  You  are  making  ready  for  a 
master.  A  great  poetic  revival  is  in  progress." 


NOTES 
CHAPTER  I.     THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 

The  following  are  excellent  discussions  of  poetry: — Haz- 
litt:  "On  Poetry  in  General";  Arnold:  Introduction  to 
Ward's  English  Poets;  Poe's  lecture,  "The  Poetic  Principle"; 
Theodore  Watts-Dunton's  article  on  Poetry  in  the  Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica;  and  Max  Eastman's  The  Enjoyment  of 
Poetry.  See  Bibliography  for  other  titles. 

The  following  references  throw  further  light  upon  the 
process  of  poetic  composition: — W.  L.  Cross:  "The  Act  of 
Composition,"  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1906;  Lane  Cooper: 
Methods  and  Aims  in  the  Study  of  Literature,  Section  IV 3 
Conrad  Aiken:  Scepticisms,  Chapter  II,  "The  Mechanism  of 
Poetic  Inspiration."  Dorothy  Canfield  Fisher:  "How  'Flint 
and  Fire'  Started,"  in  Benjamin  A.  Heydrick:  Americans  All, 
is  an  exceptionally  interesting  account  of  the  composition  of 
a  short  story.  Compare  also  Poe's  account  of  the  writing  of 
"The  Raven"  in  "The  Philosophy  of  Composition." 

CHAPTER  II.     THE  SONG 

For  further  discussion  of  the  song,  see  Mrs.  Wodehouse's 
article  on  the  Song  in  Grove's  Dictionary  of  Music  and  Mu- 
sicians; Alfred  Hayes:  "The  Relation  of  Music  to  Poetry," 
Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1914;  Prof.  Percy  H.  Boynton's 
chapter  on  "Patriotic  Songs  and  Hymns"  in  Volume  IV  of 
the  Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature;  Brander 
Matthews:  "The  Songs  of  the  Civil  War,"  in  Pen  and  Ink; 
John  Erskine:  The  Elizabethan  Lyric,  Chapter  I.  There  is 
an  interesting  account  of  Stephen  Collins  Foster  in  Henry 

483 


484  NOTES 

Watterson's  autobiography,  Marse  Henry.  For  Elizabethan 
songs,  see  Robert  Bell:  Songs  from  the  Dramatists.  Gay  ley 
and  Flaherty:  The  Poetry  of  the  People  contains  a  large 
number  of  English,  Scottish,  Irish,  and  American  songs,  with 
valuable  notes.  For  negro  folk-songs,  see  Thomas  W.  Tal- 
ley:  Negro  Folk  Rhymes  and  John  A.  Lomax:  "Self-pity  in 
Negro  Folk-songs,"  The  Nation,  August  9,  1917. 

The  following  songs  and  closely  related  poems  are  quoted 
in  other  chapters  of  this  book: — Henley:  "Invictus"  (iii)  ; 
Lovelace:  "To  Lucasta"  (iii);  Kingsley:  "Young  and  Old" 
(iii);  Goldsmith:  "When  Lovely  Woman"  (iii);  Tennyson: 
"The  Splendor  Falls"  (iii)  and  "Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells" 
(iii);  Kipling:  "For  All  We  Have  and  Are"  (iii);  Burns: 
"Bannockburn"  (iii);  Christina  Rossetti:  "When  I  Am  Dead" 
(iii);  Teasdale:  "I  Shall  Not  Care"  (iii);  Byron:  "All  for 
Love"  (iv) ;  Scott:  "Coronach"  (iv)  ;  Browning:  Song  from 
Pippa  Passes  (iv)  ;  Noyes:  Song  from  Tales  of  the  Mer- 
maid Tavern  (iv) ;  Coleridge:  "The  Knight's  Tomb"  (iv) ; 
Yeats:  "The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree"  (iv)  ;  Masefield:  "The 
West  Wind"  (iv) ;  Herrick:  "To  the  Virgins"  (iv)  ;  Burns: 
"Highland  Mary"  (xi) ;  Kipling:  "Recessional"  (xii). 

For  further  reading,  the  following  songs  are  suggested: — 
All  of  Shakespeare's  songs  and  most  of  those  by  Burns ;  Mar- 
lowe: "The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love";  Jonson: 
"Hymn  to  Diana"  and  "Still  to  be  Neat" ;  Collins :  "Dirge 
in  'Cymbeline' " ;  Thomson:  "Rule  Britannia";  Shelley: 
"Hymn  of  Pan,"  "The  Indian  Serenade,"  and  the  songs  in 
Hellas  and  Prometheus  Unbound;  Emerson:  "To  Ellen"; 
Richard  Henry  Wilde:  "My  Life  is  Like  a  Summer  Rose"; 
Richard  Hovey:  "Comrades"  and  "A  Stein  Song";  Eugene 
Field:  "Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod";  the  songs  in  Sara  Teas- 
dale's  Rivers  to  the  Sea  and  other  volumes. 

The  following  hymns  are  worthy  of  study — Addison:  "The 
Spacious  Firmament  on  High";  Charles  Wesley:  "Jesus, 
Lover  of  my  Soul";  Cowper:  "God  Moves  in  a  Mysterious 
Way"  and  "There  is  a  Fountain  Filled  with  Blood";  Thomas 
Moore:  "Come  ye  Disconsolate";  Reginald  Heber:  "The  Son 
of  God  Goes  Forth  to  War";  Holmes:  "A  Sun-Day  Hymn"; 
Lyte:  "Abide  with  Me";  Toplady:  "Rock  of  Ages";  Bliss 
Carman:  "Lord  of  the  Heart's  Elation." 


NOTES  485 

CHAPTER  III.  THE  DUPLE  METERS 

For  fuller  or  different  discussions  of  the  duple  meters,  see 
the  manuals  listed  in  the  Bibliography.  Since  the  great  ma- 
jority of  English  poems  are  iambic,  it  is  not  necessary  to 
make  any  particular  suggestions  for  further  reading  of  poems 
in  the  iambic  meter.  Note  that  all  the  poems  contained  in 
Chapters  V  and  VII  are  iambic.  Milton's  "L'Allegro"  and 
"II  Penseroso,"  Arnold's  "The  Forsaken  Merman,"  and  John 
Hall  Wheelock's  "Earth"  (ix)  are  interesting  for  their 
mingling  of  iambic  and  trochaic  feet  in  varying  proportions. 
The  following  poems  in  trochaic  rhythm  are  suggested  for 
further  study: — Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay:  "Elegy"  (xi) ; 
Keats:  "Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth"  and  "Fancy"; 
Blake:  "The  Tiger";  Burns:  "Ae  Fond  Kiss";  Shelley:  "Mu- 
sic, When  Soft  Voices  Die";  Campbell:  "The  Battle  of  the 
Baltic";  Browning:  "One  Word  More";  Tennyson:  "Locks- 
ley  Hall"  and  "Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After";  James 
Russell  Lowell:  "The  Present  Crisis";  Longfellow:  HiOf 
watha,  "Nuremberg,"  and  "The  Belfry  of  Bruges";  Poe: 
"The  Raven";  Whitman:  "Pioneers!  O  Pioneers!";  Robin- 
son: "The  Valley  of  the  Shadow." 

With  reference  to  the  named  stanzas,  some  suggested  read- 
ings are: 

Ballad  Stanza. — Emily  Dickinson:  "A  Book"  (i) ;  "Sir 
Patrick  Spens"  (vi)  ;  Herrick:  "To  the  Virgins"  (ix)  ;  Hood: 
"Faithless  Nelly  Gray"  (ix)  ;  Burns:  "Highland  Mary"  (xi). 
See  also  Kipling:  "Danny  Deever"  (vi). 

Short,  or  Octosyllabic,  Couplet. — Poe:  "The  Sleeper" 
(xi) ;  Whittier:  "Maud  Muller";  Collins:  "How  Sleep  the 
Brave";  Wordsworth:  "To  a  Highland  Girl";  Shelley:  "Lines 
Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills";  Joyce  Kilmer:  "Trees" 
(ix)  ;  Butler:  Hudibras. 

William  H.  Davies:  "Days  Too  Short"  is  in  the  "In  Me- 
moriam"  stanza.  Wordsworth:  "At  the  Grave  of  Burns"  and 
"Thoughts  Suggested  the  Day  Following"  are  appropriately 
cast  in  the  Burns  stanza.  Most  of  the  stanzas  which  bear 
names  are,  however,  associated  with  iambic  pentameter.  See 
notes  to  Chapter  V. 

The   hymn   stanza,   4(4xa),   is   known   as   the   long  meter 


486  NOTES 

stanza  (L.M.)  Similarly,  the  ballad  stanza  (C.M.),  when 
shortened  by  the  omission  of  one  foot  in  the  first  line,  is 
known  as  short  meter  (S.M.). 

CHAPTER  IV.     THE  TRIPLE  METERS 

For  fuller  discussion  of  the  triple  meters,  see  the  manuals 
of  versification  listed  in  the  Bibliography.  The  following 
additional  poems,  some  of  them  quoted  in  other  chapters,  are 
suggested: — Burns:  "Afton  Water"  (ii)  ;  Moore:  "Believe  Me, 
if  All  those  Endearing  Young  Charms"  (ii)  ;  Oilman:  "Fair 
Harvard"  (ii)  ;  Yeats:  Song  from  The  Land  of  Heart's  De- 
sire (ii) ;  Key:  "The  Star-spangled  Banner"  (ii) ;  "Lord 
Randal";  Scott:  "Lochinvar"  (vi) ;  Harte:  "Her  Letter" 
(ix)  ;  Untermeyer:  "Questioning  Lydia"  (ix) ;  Whittier: 
"Telling  the  Bees"  (xi)  ;  Browning:  "Up  at  a  Villa — Down  in 
the  City"  (xi)  ;  Masefield:  "A  Consecration"  (xii)  ;  Lindsay: 
"The  Eagle  that  is  Forgotten"  (xii);  Noyes:  "Kilmeny" 
(xii);  Dobson:  "The  Prodigals"  (vii),  "The  Wanderer" 
(vii),  "A  Kiss"  (vii),  and  "When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose" 
(vii)  ;  Shelley:  "The  Sensitive  Plant";  Scott:  "Proud  Maisie"; 
Tennyson:  "Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud";  Poe:  "Annabel 
Lee"  and  "For  Annie";  Browning:  "How  They  Brought  the 
Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix"  and  "Cavalier  Tunes"; 
Lowell:  "A  Fable  for  Critics";  Lanier:  "The  Marshes  of 
Glynn,"  "Sunrise,"  and  "The  Revenge  of  Hamish";  Swin- 
burne: "Hymn  to  Proserpine"  and  "To  Walt  Whitman  in 
America." 

Wordsworth:  "The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan"  and  Bryant: 
"Green  River"  are  poems  in  which,  perhaps,  the  triple  rhythm 
should  not  have  been  employed.  With  Longfellow's  use  of 
the  dactylic  hexameter  in  Evangeline  and  The  Courtship 
of  Miles  Standish,  the  student  may  compare  that  of  Goethe 
in  Hermann  und  Dorothea  and  that  of  Clough  in  The  Bothie 
of  Tober-na-Vuolich. 

CHAPTER  V.    IAMBIC  PENTAMETER 

Matthew  Arnold's  essay,  "On  Translating  Homer,"  con- 
tains some  suggestive  comments  on  the  various  metrical  forms 


NOTES  487 

which  have  been  used  in  rendering  the  classical  hexameter 
into  English.  In  addition  to  those  poems  quoted  in  part  in 
this  chapter,  the  following  are  suggested  for  further  study: 

Blank  Verse. — Thomson:  The  Seasons;  Cowper:  "The 
Task";  Wordsworth:  "Michael"  and  "Tintern  Abbey"  (xi)  ; 
Coleridge:  "Hymn  before  Sunrise";  Byron:  Manfred  and 
"The  Dream";  Shelley:  "Alastor";  Bryant:  "Thanatopsis" 
and  "The  Antiquity  of  Freedom";  Tennyson:  "Morte  d' Ar- 
thur"; Browning:  "Fra  Lippo  Lippi"  and  "Andrea  del 
Sarto";  Arnold:  "Sohrab  and  Rustum";  Yeats:  The  Land  of 
Heart's  Desire;  Noyes:  Drake;  Frost:  "An  Old  Man's 
Winter  Night"  and  "Birches";  Masters:  The  Domesday 
Book;  Robinson:  Avon's  Harvest,  Lancelot  and  Mer- 
lin. 

Heroic  Couplet. — Chaucer:  Prologue  to  The  Canterbury 
Tales  (following  the  introductory  section  quoted  in  this 
chapter);  Spenser:  "Mother  Hubbard's  Tale";  Marlowe: 
"Hero  and  Leander";  Shakespeare:  Romeo  and  Juliet,  act 
ii,  scene  iii;  Dryden:  "Absalom  and  Achitophel";  Pope:  The 
Rape  of  the  Lock  and  An  Essay  on  Man;  Goldsmith: 
"The  Deserted  Village";  Cowper:  "On  the  Receipt  of  my 
Mother's  Picture";  Wordsworth:  "Character  of  the  Happy 
Warrior";  Byron:  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers"; 
Shelley:  "Epipsychidion" ;  Keats:  Endymion  and  "Lamia"; 
Longfellow:  "Morituri  Salutamus";  Holmes:  "At  the  Satur- 
day Club";  Macaulay:  "A  Jacobite's  Epitaph"  (ix) ;  Swin- 
burne: "Tristram  of  Lyonesse";  Masefield:  "Biography"  and 
"Ships";  Rupert  Brooke:  "The  Great  Lover";  Frost:  "The 
Cow  in  Apple  Time." 

Heroic  Quatrain. — Dryden:  "Annus  Mirabilis";  Words- 
worth: "Elegiac  Stanzas"  (xi)  ;  Arnold:  "Palladium";  Long- 
fellow: "At  the  Arsenal  of  Springfield";  Watson:  "Words- 
worth's Grave";  Masefield:  "August,  1914,"  "The  River,"  and 
"The  Wanderer";  Gibson:  "Prelude"  (xii)  ;  Lindsay:  "Abra- 
ham Lincoln  Walks  at  Midnight"  (xi)  and  "On  the  Building 
of  Springfield"  (xi) ;  Robinson:  "Richard  Cory,"  "Old 
Trails,"  "Theophilus,"  and  "Veteran  Sirens." 

Ottava  Rima. — Byron:  Don  Juan  and  "Beppo";  Shel- 
ley: "The  Witch  of  Atlas";  Keats:  "Isabella";  Longfellow: 
"The  Birds  of  Killingworth." 


488  NOTES 

Rime  Royal. — Chaucer:  "The  Parliament  of  Fowls"; 
Shakespeare:  "The  Rape  of  Lucrece";  Wordsworth:  "Reso- 
lution and  Independence";  Masefield:  "Dauber"  and 
"The  Daffodil  Fields";  Amy  Lowell:  "The  Cremona  Vio- 
lin." 

Spenserian  Stanza. — Burns:  "The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night";  Shelley:  "Adonais"  and  "The  Revolt  of  Islam"; 
Tennyson:  "The  Lotos-Eaters"  (in  part). 

Terza  Rima. — Byron:  "The  Prophecy  of  Dante";  Shelley: 
"The  Triumph  of  Life";  Morris:  "The  Defence  of  Guene- 
vere";  Noyes:  "The  Progress  of  Love";  Masters:  "The  Mu- 
nicipal Pier."  Browning:  "The  Statue  and  the  Bust"  em- 
ploys the  terza  rima  rime  scheme  with  anapestic  tetra- 
meter. 

Odes. — Jonson:  "A  Pindaric  Ode";  Milton:  "On  the  Morn- 
ing of  Christ's  Nativity";  Dryden:  "Alexander's  Feast"; 
Gray:  "The  Bard"  and  "The  Progress  of  Poesy";  Collins: 
"Ode  to  Evening"  (x)  ;  Wordsworth:  "Ode  to  Duty"  (Hi); 
Coleridge:  "France"  and  "Dejection";  Shelley:  "To  a  Sky- 
lark" (iii)  ;  Keats:  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn"  (iii),  "Ode  to  a 
Nightingale,"  and  "To  Autumn";  Tennyson:  "Ode  on  the 
Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington";  Swinburne:  "To  Victor 
Hugo";  Lowell:  "Under  the  Old  Elm"  and  "Ode  Recited  at 
the  Harvard  Commemoration";  William  Vaughn  Moody:  "An 
Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation." 

Irregular  Poems  in  Rime. — Milton:  "Lycidas";  Dryden: 
"Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day"  and  "Alexander's  Feast";  Col- 
lins: "The  Passions";  Coleridge:  "Kubla  Khan"  (iii)  and 
"Christabel" ;  Arnold:  "Dover  Beach"  (xi) ;  Le  Gallienne: 
"The  Eternal  Way"  (xii)  ;  Amy  Lowell:  "Texas"  (xi)  ;  See- 
ger:  "I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death"  (xii);  Robinson: 
"The  Man  Against  the  Sky";  Lindsay:  "The  Santa  Fe 
Trail";  Poe:  "The  Bells,"  "To  Helen,"  and  "Israfel"; 
Goethe:  "Wanderer's  Night-songs"  (ix) ;  Emerson:  "Termi- 
nus"; Tennyson:  "Maud";  Lanier:  "Sunrise"  and  "The 
Marshes  of  Glynn";  Browning:  "Home-Thoughts  from 
Abroad";  Arnold:  "The  Forsaken  Merman."  An  interesting 
study  can  be  made  of  Victor  Hugo's  "Les  Djinns,"  in  which 
the  lines  vary  in  length  to  suit  the  subject  matter  of  the 
poem. 


NOTES  489 

CHAPTER  VI.    THE  BALLAD 

For  further  discussion  of  the  Popular  Ballad,  see  Pro- 
fessor George  Lyman  Kittredge's  Introduction  to  Kittredge 
and  Sargent:  English  a.nd  Scottish  Popular  Ballads;  Francis 
B.  Gummere:  The  Popular  Ballad  and  The  Beginnings  of 
Poetry;  and  Andrew  Lang's  article  on  the  Ballad  in  the  En- 
cyclopaedia Britannica.  These  authors  give  what  is  called 
the  orthodox  theory  of  ballad  authorship;  the  views  of  Pro- 
fessor Louise  Pound  are  set  forth  in  her  Poetic  Origins  and 
the  Ballad.  W.  Roy  Mackenzie's  The  Quest  of  the  Ballad 
is  an  extremely  interesting  account  of  the  author's  experiences 
in  ballad  collecting  in  Nova  Scotia.  Excellent  collections  of 
popular  ballads  are  Gummere:  Old  English  Ballads;  Kittredge 
and  Sargent:  English  and  Scottish  Popular  Ballads;  R.  Brim- 
ley  Johnson:  The  Book  of  British  Ballads;  Quiller-Couch : 
The  Oxford  Book  of  Ballads;  Olive  Dame  Campbell  and 
Cecil  J.  Sharp:  English  Folk  Songs  from  the  Southern  Appa- 
lachians; and  John  A.  Lomax:  Cowboy  Songs  and  Other 
Frontier  Ballads. 

For  further  reading,  the  following  British  popular  ballads 
are  suggested:  "Edward";  "The  Three  Ravens";  "Thomas 
Rymer";  "The  Twa  Brothers";  "Lord  Thomas  and  Fair  An- 
net";  "Fair  Margaret  and  Sweet  William";  "The  Wife  of 
Usher's  Well";  "Bonny  Barbara  Allen";  "The  Gay  Goshawk"; 
"Adam  Bell";  "Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne";  "The 
Hunting  of  the  Cheviot";  "Johnie  Armstrong";  "Kinmont 
Willie." 

The  following  literary  ballads  will  repay  study: — Drayton: 
"The  Battle  of  Agincourt";  Cowper:  "The  Diverting  History 
of  John  Gilpin";  Wordsworth:  "Lucy  Gray";  Coleridge: 
"The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner"  (not  strictly  a  ballad)  ; 
Scott:  "Rosabelle"  and  "The  Eve  of  St.  John";  Campbell: 
"Lord  Ullin's  Daughter";  Macaulay:  "Horatius";  Tennyson: 
"The  Defence  of  Lucknow,"  "The  Revenge/'  and  "Lady 
Clare";  Browning:  "Herve  Riel";  Rossetti:  "Sister  Helen" 
and  "The  White  Ship";  Longfellow:  "The  Skeleton  in  Ar- 
mor," "The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,"  and  "A  Ballad  of  the 
French  Fleet";  Whittier:  "The  Pipes  at  Lucknow,"  "Barclay 
of  Ury,"  and  "Cassandra  Southwick";  Lanier:  "The  Re- 


490  NOTES 

venge  of  Hamish";  Yeats:  "The  Ballad  of  Moll  Magee"  and 
"The  Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan";  Kipling:  "Gunga  Din," 
"Fuzzy- Wuzzy,"  and  "The  Ballad  of  East  and  West";  Noyes: 
"Forty  Singing  Seamen";  Masefield:  "Cap  on  Head"  and 
"The  Hounds  of  Hell";  Amy  Lowell:  Legends,  which  con- 
tains some  excellent  ballads  and  narrative  poems  of  the  same 
general  type. 

CHAPTER  VII.     THE  SONNET 

Three  sonnets  are  given  in  other  chapters: — Wordsworth: 
"Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge"  (xi)  ;  Odell  Shepard: 
"Certain  American  Poets"  (xii)  ;  and  Robinson:  "Monadnock 
through  the  Trees"  (xii).  Most  poetic  anthologies  contain  a 
number  of  sonnets.  Collections  devoted  wholly  to  the  sonnet 
are  Laura  E.  Lockwood:  English  Sonnets  and  William  Sharp: 
Sonnets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  The  Oxford  Book  of 
Australasian  Verse  contains  a  number  of  excellent  sonnets. 
A  detailed  discussion  of  the  technique  of  the  sonnet  is  given 
in  the  Introduction  to  Sharp's  Sonnets  of  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury. Austin  Dobson  wrote  a  clever  "A  Sonnet  in  Dialogue." 
See  also  Romeo  and  Juliet,  act  i,  scene  v,  lines  91  ff.  In 
French  verse  the  decasyllabic  line  is  not  a  strict  requirement. 
De  Musset's  well  known  "Tristesse"  has  octosyllabic  lines. 
Comte  de  Resseguier's  "Epitaphe  d'une  Jeune  Fille"  is  a 
sonnet  in  single-syllable  lines: 

Fort 

Belle, 

Elle 

Dort! 

Sort 

Frele, 

Quelle 

Mart! 

Rose 

Close — 

La 

Brise 

L'a 

Prise. 


NOTES  491 

The  continued  and  growing  popularity  of  the   form  has  led 
to  the  recent  establishment  of  a  magazine  entitled  The  Sonnet. 

CHAPTER  VIII.     THE  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS 

Gleeson  White's  invaluable  Ballades  and  Rondeaus  con- 
tains an  excellent  history  of  the  traditional  exotic  forms,  and 
offers  an  inclusive  anthology  of  these  forms  down  to  1887. 
A  volume  of  the  same  scope  covering  the  past  third  of  a  cen- 
tury would  be  useful  in  giving  an  appraisal  of  recent  efforts 
in  the  French  forms.  Suggestions  for  further  reading  have 
already  been  made  in  the  chapter  under  the  various  types 
illustrated. 

CHAPTER  IX.    LIGHT  VERSE 

Excellent  discussions  of  vers  de  societe  will  be  found  in 
the  following  admirable  anthologies : — Locker-Lampson :  Lyra 
Elegantiarum;  Brander  Matthews:  American  Familiar  Verse; 
Carolyn  Wells:  A  Vers  de  Societe  Anthology.  For  all  types 
of  humorous  verse  Carolyn  Wells's  A  Book  of  Humorous 
Verse  is  an  invaluable  collection. 

Nearly  all  the  poems  given  in  Chapter  VII  (The  Old 
French  Forms)  belong  to  light  verse.  See  also  Waller:  "Go, 
Lovely  Rose"  in  Chapter  III.  For  very  short  poems  of 
various  types,  see  Kipling's  "Epitaphs  of  the  War";  Robin- 
son's "Variations  of  Greek  Themes";  William  Watson's  "Epi- 
grams"; and  any  of  the  poems  of  Emily  Dickinson  and  John 
B.  Tabb. 

CHAPTER  X.     FREE  VERSE 

Interesting  discussions  of  free  verse  will  be  found  in  Amy 
Lowell's  Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry  and  in  her 
prefaces  to  Can  Grande 's  Castle  and  Sword  Blades  and  Poppy 
Seed;  Spingarn:  Creative  Criticism;  Perry:  A  Study  of 
Poetry;  and  Lowes:  Convention  and  Revolt  in  Poetry.  The 
student  who  has  read  little  or  nothing  from  Whitman  will  do 
well  to  begin  with  Perry's  biography,  Stevenson's  Essay  on 
Whitman,  and  the  selections  from  Whitman's  poetry  in  Boyn- 
ton's  American  Poetry  or  Page's  Chief  American  Poets.  Ex- 
cellent examples  of  "polyphonic  prose"  are  Amy  Lowell's 


492  NOTES 

"Guns  as  Keys"  in  Can  Grande's  Castle  and  John  Gould 
Fletcher's  "The  Passing  of  the  West"  in  Breakers  and  Gran- 
ite. For  a  discussion  of  other  rimeless  forms  than  free  verse, 
see  Brander  Matthews:  A  Study  of  Versification,  Chapter  IX. 
Whitman's  "The  Singer  in  the  Prison"  combines  free  verse 
with  rimed  regular  verse  in  an  interesting  manner. 

Poems  in  free  verse  quoted  in  other  chapters  are : — Fletcher : 
"Blake"  (i) ;  Crapsey:  "Triad"  (ix)  and  "The  Warning" 
(ix)  ;  Fletcher:  "Broadway's  Canyon"  (xi)  ;  Sandburg:  "Chi- 
cago" (xi)  and  "A.  E.  F."  (xii);  Masters:  "George  Gray" 
(xii)  and  "John  Hancock  Otis"  (xii). 

CHAPTER   XI.      POEMS    STUDIED    BY    THEME 

Poe's  discussion  of  "The  Raven"  is  found  in  "The  Philoso- 
phy of  Composition."  Other  poems  on  death  will  be  found 
in  Chapters  III,  IX,  and  X.  The  following  poems  on  old 
age  may  be  profitably  compared: — Tennyson:  "Ulysses"  (v)  ; 
Browning:  "Rabbi  ben  Ezra";  Arnold:  "Growing  Old"; 
Longfellow:  "Mprituri  Salutamus";  Holmes:  "The  Old  Man 
Dreams";  Dobson:  "Growing  Gray";  Robinson:  "Isaac  and 
Archibald";  Masefield:  "On  Growing  Old." 

Most  of  the  poems  about  Lincoln  are  found  in  Mary  Wright- 
Davis's  The  Book  of  Lincoln.  An  earlier  and  less  complete 
anthology  is  A.  Dallas  Williams's  The  Praise  of  Lincoln. 
For  discussion  of  Lincoln's  role  in  poetry,  see  Carl  Van 
Doren:  "The  Poetical  Cult  of  Lincoln"  in  The  Nation  for 
May  17,  1919;  and  John  Drinkwater's  Lincoln,  the  World- 
Emancipator. 

Other  nature  poems  in  the  book  are: — Burns:  "Afton  Water" 
(ii) ;  Stevenson:  "Requiem"  (ii) ;  Kipling:  "The  Gipsy 
Trail"  (ii)  ;  Shelley:  "To  Night"  (ii)  ;  Swinburne:  "The  Gar- 
den of  Proserpine"  (iii)  ;  Wordsworth:  "I  Wandered  Lonely" 
(iii);  Shelley:  "To  a  Skylark"  (iii);  Cowper:  "The  Poplar 
Field"  (iv)  ;  Swinburne:  "A  Forsaken  Garden"  (iv)  ;  Shelley: 
"The  Cloud"  (iv)  ;  Lanier:  "The  Song  of  the  Ch.attahooch.ee" 
(iv)  ;  Yeats:  "The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree"  (iv) ;  Masefield: 
"The  West  Wind"  (iv)  ;  Wordsworth:  From  The  Prelude  (v)  ; 
Keats:  From  "Hyperion"  (v) ;  Tennyson:  "Ulysses"  (v) ; 
Bryant:  From  "The  Prairies"  (v) ;  Emerson:  "The  Snow- 


NOTES  493 

Storm"  (v);  Frost:  "Mending  Wall"  (v)  and  "The  Tuft  of 
Flowers"  (v)  ;  Gray:  "Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard" (v) ;  Byron:  From  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  (v) ; 
Shelley:  "Ode  to  the  West  Wind"  (v) ;  Keats:  "On  First 
Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer"  (vii) ;  Wordsworth:  "The 
World  is  Too  Much  with  Us"  (vii);  Shelley:  "Ozymandias" 
(vii);  Keats:  "On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket"  (vii); 
Lang:  "Ballade  to  Theocritus  in  Winter"  (viii) ;  McCrae; 
"In  Flanders  Fields"  (viii);  Bunner:  "A  Pitcher  of  Mignon- 
ette" (viii);  Scollard:  "In  the  Sultan's  Garden"  (viii); 
Goethe:  "Wanderer's  Night-songs"  (ix)  ;  Arnold:  "Philomela" 
(x) ;  Whitman:  "When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer" 
(x)  and  "As  Toilsome  I  Wander'd  Virginia's  Woods"  (x) ; 
Henley:  "Margaritae  Sorori"  (x) ;  Fletcher:  "Exit"  (x) ; 
Gibson:  "Prelude"  (xii)  ;  Robinson:  "The  Dark  Hills"  (xii) 
and  "Monadnock  through  the  Trees"  (xii). 

Interesting  poems  dealing  with  the  city  are: — Bryant:  "The 
Hymn  of  the  City";  Harte:  "San  Francisco";  Masters:  "The 
Loop";  Amy  Lowell:  "Towns  in  Color,"  in  her  Men,  Women 
and  Ghosts.  See  also  many  poems  in  Fletcher:  Breakers  and 
Granite  and  Sandburg:  Chicago  Poems. 

CHAPTER  XII.    THE  CONTEMPORARY  POETS 

Interesting  discussions  of  contemporary  poets  are  found  in 
Amy  Lowell:  Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry;  Louis 
Untermeyer:  The  New  Era  in  American  Poetry;  Con- 
rad Aiken:  Scepticisms:  Notes  on  Contemporary  Poetry; 
Mary  C.  Sturgeon:  Studies  of  Contemporary  Poets;  Manly 
and  Rickert:  Contemporary  British  Literature  and  Contempo- 
rary American  Literature;  Marguerite  Wilkinson:  New  Voices; 
Arthur  Waugh:  Tradition  and  Change;  John  Erskine:  The 
Kinds  of  Poetry;  Lowes:  Convention  and  Revolt  in  Poetry; 
Phelps:  The  Advance  of  English  Poetry  in  the  Twentieth 
Century. 

Most  of  the  following  excellent  anthologies  also  contain 
valuable  criticism: — Untermeyer:  Modern  American  Poetry 
(revised  and  enlarged  edition)  and  Modern  British  Poetry; 
Marguerite  Wilkinson:  New  Voices;  Harriet  Monroe  and 
Alice  Corbin  Henderson:  The  New  Poetry;  Jessie  B.  Ritten- 


494  NOTES 

house:  The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse  and  The  Second 
Book  of  Modern  Verse. 

In  this  chapter  we  have  not  discussed  all  the  contemporary 
poets  who  are  represented  by  poems  in  other  chapters.  For 
review  it  will  be  well  to  look  up  the  following  names  in  the 
General  Index  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  although  some  of 
these  poets  are  contemporary  in  time  only  (the  names  of 
American  poets  are  indicated  by  an  asterisk)  : 

Robert  Bridges ;  Rupert  Brooke ;  *  Gelett  Burgess ;  *  Witter 
Bynner;  *  Adelaide  Crapsey;  Walter  de  la  Mare;  Austin  Dob- 
son;  Lord  Dunsany;  *  John  Gould  Fletcher;  *  Robert  Frost; 
Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson;  Edmund  Gosse;  Thomas  Hardy; 

*  "H.   D.";  William  Ernest  Henley;  *  Joyce  Kilmer;   Rud- 
yard    Kipling;    Francis    Ledwidge;    Richard    Le    Gallienne; 

*  Vachel    Lindsay;    Andrew    Lang;    *  Haniel    Long;    *  Amy 
Lowell ;  John  Masefield ;  *  Edgar  Lee  Masters ;  John  McCrae ; 

*  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay;  *  Christopher  Morley;  Eliot  Na- 
pier;  Alfred    Noyes;    *  Josephine   Preston    Peabody;    *  Ezra 
Pound;  *  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  *  Carl  Sandburg;  Sieg- 
fried   Sassoon ;    *  Clinton    Scollard ;    *  Alan    Seeger ;    *  Odell 
Shepard;    Rabindranath    Tagore;    *  Sara    Teasdale;    *  Louis 
Untermeyer ;  *  Henry  van  Dyke ;  William  Watson ;  *  Willard 
Wattles;    Theodore   Watts-Dunton ;    *  John    Hall    Wheelock; 
William  Butler  Yeats. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

AIKEN,  CONRAD 

Scepticisms:  Notes  on  Contemporary  Poetry. 
ALDEN,  RAYMOND  M. 

An  Introduction  to  Poetry. 

English  Verse:  Specimens  Illustrating  its  Principles  and 

History. 
ANDREWS,  C.  E. 

The  Writing  and  Reading  of  Verse. 
ARMES,  W.  D. 

Old  English  Ballads  and  Folk  Songs. 
ARNOLD,  MATTHEW 

"The  Study  of  Poetry"    (Introduction  to  Ward's  Eng- 
lish Poets). 
BOYNTON,  PERCY  H. 

American  Poetry. 
BRADLEY,  A.  C. 

Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry. 
CLARKE,  GEORGE  HERBERT 

A  Treasury  of  War  Poetry. 
DRINKWATER,  JOHN 

The  Lyric. 
EASTMAN,  MAX 

The  Enjoyment  of  Poetry. 
ERSKINE,  JOHN 

The  Elizabethan  Lyric. 

The  Kinds  of  Poetry. 
GAYLEY,  C.  M.,  and  FLAHERTY,  M.  C. 

The  Poetry  of  the  People. 
GAYLEY,  C.  M.,  and  KURTZ,  B.  P. 

Methods  and  Materials  of  Literary  Criticism. 
GAYLEY,  C.  M.,  YOUNG,  C.  C.,  and  KURTZ,  B.  P. 

English   Poetry:   Its   Principles   and   Progress    (revised 
edition). 

495 


496  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

GAYLEY,  C.  M. 

The  Classic  Myths  in  English  Literature. 
GUMMERE,  FRANCIS  B. 

The  Beginnings  of  Poetry. 

The  Popular  Ballad. 

Old  English  Ballads. 
HART,  W.  M. 

English  Popular  Ballads. 
JOHNSON,  R.  BRIMLEY 

The  Book  of  British  Ballads. 

KlTTREDGE,   GEORGE    LYMAN,    and   SARGENT,   HELEN    CHILD 

English  and  Scottish  Popular  Ballads. 
LEONARD,  STERLING  A. 

Poems  of  the  War  and  the  Peace. 
LOCKER-LAMPSON,  FREDERICK 

Lyra  Elegantiarum. 
LOCKWOOD,  LAURA  E. 

English  Sonnets. 
LOMAX,  JOHN  AVERY 

Cowboy  Songs  and  Other  Frontier  Ballads. 

Songs  of  the  Cattle  Trail  and  the  Cow  Camp. 
LOWELL,  AMY 

Tendencies   in    Modern   American   Poetry    (see    also   the 

prefaces  to  her  various  volumes  of  verse). 
LOWES,  JOHN  LIVINGSTON 

Convention  and  Revolt  in  Poetry. 
MACKENZIE,  W.  ROY 

The  Quest  of  the  Ballad. 
MANLY,  JOHN  MATTHEWS,  and  RICKERT,  EDITH 

Contemporary    British    Literature:     Bibliographies     and 
Study  Outlines. 

Contemporary  American   Literature:   Bibliographies  and 

Study  Outlines. 
MATTHEWS,  BRANDER 

American  Familiar  Verse. 

A  Study  of  Versification. 
MONRO,  HAROLD 

Some  Contemporary  Poets. 

Some  Soldier  Poets. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  497 

NEILSON,  WILLIAM  ALLAN 

The  Essentials  of  Poetry. 

Burns :  How  to  Know  Him. 
OSBORN,  E.  B. 

The  Muse  in  Arms:  A  Collection  of  War  Poems. 
PALGRAVE,  FRANCIS  TURNER 

The  Golden  Treasury. 
PATTERSON,  WILLIAM  M. 

The  Rhythm  of  Prose. 
PERCY,  THOMAS 

Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry. 
PERRY,  BLISS 

A  Study  of  Poetry. 
PHELPS,  WILLIAM  LYON 

The  Advance  of  English  Poetry  in  the  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury. 
POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN 

"The  Poetic  Principle." 

"The  Philosophy  of  Composition." 
POUND,  LOUISE 

Poetic  Origins  and  the  Ballad. 
PRESCOTT,  F.  C. 

The  Poetic  Mind. 

QUILLER-COUCH,    SlR    ARTHUR    T. 

The  Oxford  Book  of  Ballads. 
The  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse. 
RHYS,  EDWARD 

The  New  Golden  Treasury. 

RlTTENHOUSE,   JESSIE    B. 

The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse. 

The  Second  Book  of  Modern  Verse. 
SCHELLING,  FELIX  E. 

The  English  Lyric 
SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP 

The  Defense  of  Poesy. 
SHARP,  WILLIAM 

Sonnets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE 

A  Defence  of  Poetry. 


498  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

SPINGARN,  JOEL  ELIAS 

Creative   Criticism. 
STEVENSON,  BURTON  EGBERT 

Poems  of  American  History. 
TALLEY,  THOMAS  W. 

Negro  Folk  Rhymes. 
UNTERMEYER,  Louis 

The  New  Era  in  American  Poetry. 

Modern  American  Poetry. 

Modern  British  Poetry. 
WATTS-DUNTON,  THEODORE 

Article  on  Poetry  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 
WELLS,  CAROLYN 

The  Book  of  Humorous  Verse. 
WHITE,  GLEESON 

Ballades  and   Rondeaus,  Chants   Royal,  Sestinas,  Villa- 

nelles,  etc. 
WHITMAN,  WALT 

Preface  to  Leaves  of  Grass. 
WILKINSON,  MARGUERITE 

New  Voices:  An  Introduction  to  Contemporary  Poetry. 

WOODBERRY,    GEORGE    EDWARD 

"A  New  Defence  of  Poetry"  (in  The  Heart  of  Man). 
The  Appreciation  of  Literature. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


to 
POETS,  TITLES  OF  POEMS,  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  MATTERS 

The  names  of  poets  quoted  in  this  anthology  are  printed  in  small 
capitals.  American  poets  are  indicated  by  an  asterisk  (*), 
living  poets  by  a  dagger  (•(•).  All  titles  are  printed  in  italics. 


ANONYMOUS  (i.e.,  poems  by  un- 
known authors),  Swing  Low, 
Sweet  Chariot,  28-29;  John 
Brown's  Body,  46-47;  Lord 
Randal,  239;  The  Twa  Cor- 
bies, 240;  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
241-242;  Fair  Helen,  243-244; 
Jesse  James,  244-246;  Katha- 
rine Jaffray,  246-248;  The 
Young  Lady  of  Niger,  345; 
Brussels  Cross  Inscription, 
352. 

Abraham  Lincoln  (Malone), 
quoted  401. 

Abraham  Lincoln  Walks  at  Mid- 
night (Lindsay),  473,  quoted 
409-410. 

acatalectic,  72. 

accent,   66. 

•f* Adams,  Franklin  P.,  326. 

Addison,   Joseph,   237,   411. 

A.  E.  F.  (Sandburg),  quoted 
480. 

Jlneid,   Vergil's,   67. 

Afton  Water  (Burns),  quoted 
31-32. 

|*Aiken,  Conrad,  468. 

•{•Aldington,  Richard,  460. 

•^ALDINGTON,  MRS.  RICHARD. 
See  "H.  D." 

*ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY,  317, 
324,  348;  poem  quoted:  Pala- 
bras  Carinosas,  323-324. 

Alexander  Throckmorton  (Mas- 
ters), quoted  372. 


All  Men  are  Free  (Napier), 
quoted  304-305. 

alliteration,  81,  82. 

Altgeld,  John  P.,  464. 

America  (Smith),  42,  43-45, 
quoted  44-45. 

American   Anthology,   An,   457. 

American  Familiar    Verse,   321. 

anapestic  meters,  68,  138,  140, 
238,  250. 

Anglo-Saxon  verse,  352,  365. 

Annie  Laurie  (Lady  Scott), 
quoted  34-35. 

Anthology,   the   Greek,   350,   466. 

Apology,  An  (Morris),  110, 
quoted  215-216. 

Aristotle,   2,   6,  363. 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW,  1,  2,  7,  13, 
14,  17,  91-92,  182,  275,  285, 
364,  369,  400,  411,  418;  poems 
quoted:  Destiny,  92;  Shake- 
speare, 285-286 ;  Philomela, 
369-370;  Requiescat,  395-396; 
Dover  Beach,  418-419. 

Ars  Victrix  (Dobson),  quoted  in 
part  192. 

Arthur,   King,  400. 

As  Toilsome  I  Wander1 'd  Vir- 
ginia's Woods  (Whitman), 
quoted  378. 

assonance,  82,  83. 

Astrid  (Noyes),  quoted  in  part 
82. 

At  Magnolia  Cemetery  (Timrod), 
quoted  122-123. 


499 


500 


GENERAL  INDEX 


Atalanta  in  Calydon,   141. 
Atlantic  Monthly,  The,  323. 
August,  1914,  474. 
Auld  Lang  Syne  (Burns),  quoted 

33-34. 

autograph  poems,  357-358. 
Aylmer,   Rose,   394. 

Baby's  Feet,  A  (Swinburne), 
quoted  308. 

Bacheller,   Irving,   401. 

ballad,  the,  Chapter  VI  passim, 
235  ff. 

Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies,  The  (Vil- 
lon), quoted  300-301. 

Ballad  of  Heroes,  A  (Dobson), 
quoted  297-298. 

ballad   stanza,   the,   77,  252,   257. 

ballade,  the,  295   if. 

Ballade  of  the  Southern  Cross 
(Lang),  quoted  296-297. 

Ballade  to  Theocritus,  in  Win- 
ter (Lang),  quoted  295-296. 

Ballades  and  Rondeaus,  295. 

Ballades  in  Blue  China,  295, 
296. 

Ballot,  The  (Pierpont),  quoted 
115. 

Bannockburn  (Burns),  quoted 
49. 

Bard's  Epitaph,  A  (Burns),  351, 
quoted  99-100. 

Barney  McGee  (Hovey),  quoted 
in  part  152. 

Barrack-room  Ballads,  252,  253, 
447. 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic, 
The  (Mrs.  Howe),  47-48,  quoted 
48. 

Baudelaire,   Charles,  400. 

BEAUMONT,  FRANCIS,  112;  poem 
quoted:  On  the  Tombs  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  113. 

Beaumont,  Sir  George,  413,  414. 

Beethoven,  Ludwig  Van,  21. 

Believe  Me  if  All  Those  Endear- 
ing Young  Charms  (Moore), 
55,  quoted  38. 

f*Benei,   Stephen   Vincent,  468. 

f*Ben£t,  William  Rose,  453,  468. 


Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a  Man 
from  Stratford  (Robinson), 
462,  quoted  in  part  188-189. 

Bennett,  Arnold,  13. 

Berlin,   Irving,  27. 

Bible,  the,  251-252,  367,  368,  373. 

•fBiNYON,  LAURENCE;  poem 
quoted:  For  the  Fallen,  476- 
477. 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM,  15,  107,  127, 
370-371;  poems  quoted:  The 
Tiger  (in  part),  72;  Songs  of 
Innocence:  Introduction,  74. 

Blake  (Fletcher),  quoted  15. 

blank  verse,  172  ff.,  192. 

Blessed  Damozel,   The,  104,  392. 

Bonnie  Doon  (Burns),  quoted  in 
part  70. 

Book,  A    (Dickinson),  quoted  4. 

Book  of  Lincoln,  The,  406. 

Bowles,  WTilliam  Lisle,  269. 

f*Branch,  Anna  Hempstead,  468. 

Break,  Break,  Break  (Tenny- 
son), quoted  168-169. 

BRERETON,  MRS.  JANE;  poem 
quoted:  On  Beau  Nosh's  Pic- 
ture, 356. 

Bride  of  Abydos,  The  (Byron), 
quoted  in  part  165-166. 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  The  (Hood), 
342,  quoted  153-156. 

•{-BRIDGES,  ROBERT,  282-284,  445; 
poem  quoted:  Who  Builds  a 
Ship,  284. 

Broadway's  Canyon  (Fletcher), 
quoted  432-433. 

BROOKE,  RUPERT,  210,  284,  474, 
475;  poem  quoted:  The  Soldier, 
284-285. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  364. 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM,  poem  quoted: 

On  the  Countess  Dowager  of 
Pembroke,  349. 

BROWNING,  MRS.  ELIZABETH  BAR- 
RETT, 282-283,  321,  359;  poem 
quoted:  How  Do  I  Love  Thee? 
283. 

BROWNING,  ROBERT,  5,  156,  181, 
182,  282,  364,  376,  392,  411, 
428,  447,  466;  poems  quoted: 


GENERAL  INDEX 


501 


Prospice,  146-147;  The  Year's 
at  the  Spring,  149;  The  Lost 
Leader,  157-158;  My  Last 
Duchess,  199-201;  Up  at  a 
Villa — Down  in  the  City,  429- 
432. 

Bruce 's  Address  to  his  Army  at 
Bannockburn  (Burns),  quoted 
120-121. 

Brussels  Cross  Inscription,  quoted 
352. 

*BRYAKT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN,  87, 
88-90,  185-186,  204,  286,  428; 
poems  quoted:  The  Poet,  9-10; 
To  a  Water-fowl,  88-89;  Thana- 
topsis  (in  part),  90;  The 
Prairies  (in  part),  186-U87; 
The  Death  of  Lincoln,  403. 

*BUNNER,  HENRY  CITYLER,  294, 
309;  poems  quoted:  A  Pitcher 
of  Mignonette,  309;  "One,  Two, 
Three,"  335-336. 

•{•'BURGESS,  GELETT,  340;  poem 
quoted:  The  Purple  Cow,  340. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The 
(Wolfe),  quoted  145-146. 

BURNS,  ROBERT,  14,  30-34  (his 
songs),  55-56,  321,  350,  351, 
392,  411;  poems  quoted:  Afton 
Water,  31-32;  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
33-34;  John  Anderson,  55-56; 
Bonnie  Doon  (in  part),  70; 
A  Bard's  Epitaph,  99-100; 
Bruce's  Address  to  his  Army  at 
Bannockburn,  120-121 ;  Epi- 
taph on  John  Dove,  351 ;  High- 
land Mary,  392-393. 

Burns  (Whittier),  quoted  in  part 
5. 

f*BYNNER,  WITTER,  8,  316,  360, 
406,  468;  poem  quoted  in  part: 
The  New  World,  381. 

BYRON,  LORD,  102,  144,  279-280, 
336,  339,  372,  373,  411,  481; 
poems  quoted:  She  Walks  in 
Beauty,  70-71;  The  Destruc- 
tion of  Sennacherib,  138-139; 
O  Talk  Not  to  Me,  139-140; 
The  Bride  of  Abydos  (in  part), 
165-166;  The  Vision  of  Judg- 


ment (in  part),  214-215; 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage  (in 
part),  221-222,  426-4-27;  Son- 
net on  Chilian,  280;  To  Thomas 
Moore,  337;  Lines  Written  in 
an  Album  at  Malta,  357-358; 
Oh!  Snatch' d  Away  in  Beauty's 
Bloom,  395. 

Campbell,  Mary,  392-393. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  481. 

CAREY,  HENRY  (?),  44-45,  poem 
quoted:  God  Save  the  King,  45. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  8. 

•f-*Carman,   Bliss,  406. 

Carroll,  Lewis,  340. 

*CARY,  PHOSBE,  poem  quoted: 
When  Lovely  Woman  Wants  a 
Favor,  345-346. 

Castle  of  Indolence,  The  (Thom- 
son), quoted  in  part  219. 

catalectic,  71. 

catalexis,   152. 

*Cawein,  Madison,  444. 

Century  of  Roundels,  A,  308. 

Certain  American  Poets  (Shep- 
ard),  quoted  458. 

chain  verse,  316. 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The 
(Holmes),  quoted  in  part  90. 

chant  royal,  the,  302. 

Chapman,  George,  271. 

Charles   II,   350. 

CHATJCEH,  GEOFFREY,  14,  215,  294, 
302,  454;  poems  quoted:  Pro- 
logue (in  part),  195;  To  Rose- 
mounde,  A  Balade,  303. 

CHESTERFIELD,  EARL  OF,  poem 
quoted:  Immortal  Newton,  356. 

Chevy  Chase,  237. 

Chicago  (Sandburg),  384,  433, 
quoted  433-435. 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage 
(Byron),  144,  411,  426,  quoted 
in  part  221-222,  426-427. 

Churchhill,  Winston,  401. 

cliches,  12. 

city  in  poetry,  the,  386-387,  425- 
442. 

classical  meters,  68,  161-162,  368. 


502 


GENERAL  INDEX 


Cloud,  The  (Shelley),  quoted  149- 
152. 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  400. 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR,  2,  17, 
60,  65,  129,  144,  166,  226,  240, 
252,  339,  364,  410,  411,  481; 
poems  quoted:  Metrical  Feet 
(in  part),  65;  Kubla  Khan, 
130-132;  The  Knight's  Tomb, 
166-167. 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM,  204,  411 ;  poem 
quoted:  Ode  to  Evening,  365- 
3(57. 

"colyumists,"  326. 

Come,  Republic  (Masters),  quoted 
382-384. 

Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep  (Sidney), 
quoted  276-277. 

common  meter,  77. 

Composed  upon  Westminster 
Bridge  (Wordsworth),  quoted 
428. 

Comus  (Milton),  322,  quoted  in 
part  177-178. 

Concord  Hymn  (Emerson), 
quoted  56-57. 

Conrad,  Joseph,  453. 

Consecration,  A  (Masefield), 
110,  quoted  455-456. 

contemporary  poetry,  see  Chap- 
ter XII  passim  443  ff.,  and 
notes  to  Chapter  XII. 

Convention  and  Revolt  in  Poetry, 
16. 

Cooper,    James    Fenimore,    453. 

Coronach  (Scott),  147,  quoted 
148. 

cowboy  ballads,  237,  244  ff. 

Cowboy  Songs  and  Other  Fron- 
tier 'Ballads,  244. 

COWPER,  WILLIAM,  286,  318,  339, 
411,  425;  poem  quoted:  The 
Poplar  Field,  140-141. 

Crabbe,  George,  481. 

*CRAPSEY,  ADELAIDE,  468;  poems 
quoted:  On  Seeing  Weather- 
beaten  Trees,  194;  Triad,  360; 
The  Warning,  360. 

Creative  Criticism,  388. 

Creeds  (Wattles),  quoted  356. 


Croce,  Benedetto,  8,  226. 
Crossing  the  Bar  (Tennyson),  22, 
quoted  62-63. 

dactylic  verse,  68,  152  ff. 

Daffodil  Fields,   The,  447. 

Danny  Deever  (Kipling),  quoted 
252-254. 

Dante,  183,  191,  222,  286  ff.,  292, 
392. 

Darest  Thou  Now,  O  Soul  (Whit- 
man), 378,  quoted  379. 

Dark  Hills,  The  (Robinson),  462, 
quoted  462-463. 

Darwin,    Charles,    20,    416,    417. 

Dauber,  454. 

Dead  Men  Tell  No  Tales  (Long), 
quoted  126. 

death,  poems  on,  378,  389-400. 

Death  of  Lincoln,  The  (Bryant), 
quoted  403. 

Decatur,  Stephen,  470. 

Dedication,   104. 

•fde  la  Mare,  Walter,  421. 

DeQuincey,  Thomas,  129,  364. 

Derby,  Earl  of,  193. 

Destiny    (Arnold),  quoted   92. 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib, 
The  (Byron),  quoted  138-139. 

*Dickinson,  Emily,  poems  quoted: 
A  Book,  4;  This  Quiet  Dust, 
353. 

didactic   verse,   7-8,    90. 

dimeter,   75. 

Dixie,   22,   42,   46. 

DOBSON,  HENRY  AUSTIN,  294,  302, 
306,  312,  323,  339,  360-361,  446; 
poems  quoted:  Ars  Victrix  (in 
part),  192;  A  Ballad  of 
Heroes,  297-298;  The  Prodi- 
gals, 299;  In  After  Days,  305; 
The  Wanderer,  306-307;  Vitas 
Hinnuleo,  307-308;  A  Kiss, 
309;  When  I  Saw  You  Last, 
Rose,  310-311;  Jocosa  Lyra, 
361-362. 

Dodgson,  Charles  L.  See  Carroll, 
Lewis. 

Domesday    Book,    465. 

double  ballade,  the,  302. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


503 


DOUGLAS,  WILLIAM,  poem  quoted: 

Annie  Laurie,  34-35. 
Dover  Beach  (Arnold),  364,  418, 

quoted  418-419. 
DOYLE,     SIR     FRAXCIS     HASTINGS 

CHARLES,     94;     poem     quoted: 

The  Private  of  the  Buffs,  94- 

96. 

Drake,  65,  453. 
dramatic  monologue,  the,  199. 
DRAYTOX,  MICHAEL,  poem  quoted: 

Since  There's  No  Help,  277. 
Dried  Marjoram,  447. 
•fDrinkwater,  John,  401. 
Drum-Taps,   377. 
duple    meters,    the,    see    Chapter 

III  passim,  65   ff. 
Dvorak,  22,  28. 
DRYDEX,    JOHN,    196,    226,    364; 

poem    quoted:    Lines    Printed 

under    the    Engraved   Portrait 

of  Milton,  197. 
•{•DUXSAXY,  LORD,  3,  373;  poems 

in    prose    quoted:    The    Worm 

and    the    Angel,    373-374;    The 

Prayer  of  the  Flowers,  442. 

Earth    (Wheelock),    422,    quoted 

423-425. 

-j-*Eastman,  Max,  15. 
Eggleston,  Edward,  401. 
Elegiac    Stanzas    (Wordsworth), 

quoted  414-416. 
elegies,    great,    399-400. 
Elegy    (Millay),  quoted   398-399. 
Elegy     Written     in     a     Country 

Churchyard        (Gray),        204, 

quoted    205-210. 
Eliot,    George,    391. 
*EMERSOX,  RALPH  WALDO,  6,  128, 

364,     375,     400,     462;     poems 

quoted:  Concord  Hymn,  56-57; 

The    Rhodora    (in    part),    87; 

This     Shining     Moment,     172; 

The  Snow-Storm,  187-188. 
Emmett,  Daniel   Decatur,  46. 
Endymion,   104. 
England    my   Mother    (Watson), 

quoted  in  part  443. 
Enoch   Arden,   447. 


Enslaved,  454. 

epitaph,  the,  99,  209,  349  ff. 

Epitaph  Intended  for  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  (Pope),  quoted  349. 

Epitaph  on  Charles  II  (Roches- 
ter), quoted  350. 

Epitaph  on  John  Dove  (Burns), 
quoted  351. 

Eternal  Way,  The  (Le  Gal- 
lienne),  quoted  459-460. 

Evangeline  (Longfellow),  368, 
375,  quoted  in  part  162-163. 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The  (Keats), 
3,  quoted  in  part  220. 

Everlasting  Mercy,  The,  453,  454. 

Exit    (Fletcher),  quoted  385-386. 

eye-rime,  58,  98. 

Faerie    Queene,    The    (Spenser), 

quoted  in  part  218-219. 
Fair    Harvard    (Oilman),   38-40, 

quoted  39-40. 
feminine  rime,  81,  100. 
Fence,    A    ,(Sandburg),    quoted 

384-385. 

-f-*Ficke,  Arthur  Davison,  468. 
*FIELD,      EUGEXE,      326;      poem 

quoted:       The      Truth      about, 

Horace,  326-327. 
Fifty-one  Tales,  373. 
•f*FiLsixoEH,  MRS.     See  Teasdale, 

Sara. 
Firelight       (Robinson),      quoted 

290-291. 
FITZGERALD,        EDWARD,        poem 

quoted  in  part:   The  Rubdiydt 

of  Omar  Khayyam,  213. 
fixed  forms,  268-269,  294  ff. 
Fletcher,    Andrew,    of    Saltoun, 

235. 
FLETCHER,  JOHX,  poem  quoted  in 

part;  Henry   VIII,  176-177. 
•{•'FLETCHER,    JOHN    GOTJLD,    405, 

460;  poems  quoted:  Exit,  385- 

386;   Broadway's   Canyon,  432- 

433. 

fFlint,   T.   S.,   460. 
Flower    in    the    Crannied    Wall 

(Tennyson),  quoted  412. 
folk-song,  28-30,  58. 


504 


GENERAL  INDEX 


For  All  We  Have  and  Are  (Kip- 
ling), quoted  118-120. 

For  an  Autograph  (J.  R. 
Lowell),  quoted  358. 

For  Metaphors  of  Man  (Wat- 
son), quoted  410. 

Forsaken  Garden,  A  (Swin- 
burne), 141,  quoted  142-144. 

*  FOSTER,  STEPHEN  COLLINS,  23- 
28,  35,  52;  poem  quoted:  Old 
Folks  at  Home,  23  If. 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi  (Browning,) 
quoted  in  part  5. 

free  verse,  359,  360,  363  ff  (Chap- 
ter X  passim). 

*Freneau,   Philip,   87. 

•f*  FROST,  ROBERT,  188,  380,  421, 
445,  463;  poems  quoted:  Mend- 
ing Wall,  189-190;  The  Tuft  of 
Flowers,  201-203. 


Garden  by  the  Sea,  A  (Morris), 
411,  quoted  in  part  412. 

Oar  den  of  Proserpine,  The 
(Swinburne),  83,  quoted  78-80. 

Gautier,    Theophile,    192,    294. 

GAY,  JOHN,  339;  poem  quoted: 
Life  is  a  Jest,  350. 

George,  David  Lloyd,  408. 

George  Gray  (Masters),  quoted 
466-467. 

Georgians,  the,  446. 

•{•GIBSON,  WILFRID  WILSON,  380, 
446,  477;  poem  quoted:  Pre- 
lude, 456. 

*GILDEB,  RICHARD  WATSON,  292; 
poem  quoted:  Navies  nor 
Armies,  359. 

*GILMAN,  REV.  SAMUEL,  38;  poem 
quoted:  Fair  Harvard,  39-40. 

Gipsy  Trail,  The  (Kipling), 
quoted  53-55. 

GOETHE,  JOHANN  WOLFGANG, 
163,  165,  425;  poems  quoted: 
Wanderer's  Night-songs,  353- 
354.  See  also  Longfellow,  H. 
W. 

Golden  Treasury,  The,  139,  242. 

Goldschmidt,    Mme.,    60. 


GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER,  101,  339,  345 ; 

poem    quoted:     When    Lovely 

Woman  Stoops    to   Folly,   101. 
Go,  Lovely  Rose  (Waller),  quoted 

87-88. 
•fGossE,     EDMUND,    poem    quoted: 

Sestina  to  F.  H.,  314-315. 
•{•Graves,  Robert,  477. 
GRAY,  THOMAS,  14,   17,  204,  210, 

226,    353,    411;    poem    quoted: 

Elegy    Written    in    a    Country 

Churchyard,   205-210. 
Greek   Anthology,   the,  350,   466. 
Grenfell,  Julian,  475. 
Guinevere,  372,  373. 
•j-*Guiterman,    Arthur,    406,    408, 

468. 


HADRIAN,  poem  quoted:  To  his 
Soul,  352-353.  See  also  Prior, 
Matthew. 

•(•*Hagedorn,   Hermann,  406. 

Hallam,  Arthur  Henry,  400,  416. 

Hamlet  (Shakespeare),  12,  quoted 
in  part  1 75. 

•{•HARDY,  THOMAS,  391 ;  poems 
quoted:  Her  Initials,  355;  In 
a  Wood,  420-421. 

Hark!  Hark!  the  Lark  (Shake- 
speare), quoted  36-37. 

*HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET,  115,  318, 
405;  poems  quoted:  Her  Letter, 
318-320;  Mrs.  Judge  Jenkins, 
346-348;  San  Francisco  (in 
part),  427. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  391. 

f*"H.  D."  (Mrs.  Richard  Alding- 
ton), 381,  460;  poem  quoted: 
Oread,  461-462. 

Health,  A  (Pinkney),  quoted 
338-339. 

Helen  of  Troy,  173,  174. 

HENLEY,  WILLIAM  ERNEST,  90, 
294,  380;  poems  quoted:  In- 
victus,  91;  Romance,  121-122; 
Villanelle,  311;  Margaritae 
Sorori,  380-381. 

Henry,  O.,  448. 

Henry   V,  470. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


505 


Henry    VIII    (Shakespeare    and 

Fletcher),  quoted  in  part  176- 

177. 

heptameter,   75. 
Her    Initials     (Hardy),    quoted 

355. 
Her  Letter  (Harte),  quoted  318- 

320. 

•f*Herford,   Oliver,   340. 
Herodotus,   363. 
heroic  couplet,  194  If.,  349. 
heroic   quatrain,   203   ff. 
HERRICK,  ROBERT,  324,  361 ;  poems 

quoted:     Upon    his    Departure 

Hence,  76;   To  the   Virgins,  to 

Make  Much  of  Time,  325. 
hexameter,  75,  162-163,  368. 
Hiawatha  (Longfellow),  quoted 

in  part  71. 
Highland  Mary  (Burns),  quoted 

392-393. 
Highwayman,  The   (Noyes),  262, 

452,  quoted  262-267. 
His  Friends  He  Loved  (Watson), 

quoted  355. 
hokku,   the,  360. 
*HOLMES,  OLIVER   WENDELL,  318, 

405,     457,     459,     462;     poems 

quoted:    The   Chambered  Nau- 
tilus   (in  part),  90;   The  Last 

Leaf,  328-330. 
HOMER,    13,    286,    368,    373-374; 

opening  paragraph  of  the  Iliad 

quoted    193. 
HOOD,    THOMAS,    339,    340,    342; 

poems   quoted:   The  Bridge   of 

Sighs,  153-156;  Faithless  Nelly 

Gray,  342-345. 
HORACE,  272,  307,  326-329;  poem 

quoted :      Questioning      Lydia, 

327-328.     See  also  Untermeyer, 

Louis. 
•fHousMAX,       ALFRED       EDWARD, 

poem  quoted  in  part:  Reveille, 

73-74. 
*HOVEY,  RICHARD,  117,  152;  poem 

quoted:     Unmanifest    Destiny, 

117-118. 
How   Do   I  Love   Thee?      (Mrs. 

Browning),  quoted  283. 


*HowE,  MRS.  JULIA  WARD,  47; 
poem  quoted:  The  Battle 
Hymn  of  the  Republic,  48. 

HUNT,  LEIGH,  281,  356,  357;  poem 
quoted:  Rondeau,  357. 

Hunting  Song  (Scott),  quoted 
72-73. 

hymn,  the,  40-41. 

Hymn  to  the  Night  (Longfel- 
low), quoted  127-128. 

hypercatalectic,  81. 

Hyperion  (Keats),  quoted  in 
part  181. 


iambic  verse,  66,  69,  70.  See 
Chapters  II  and  V  passim, 

iambic  pentameter,  172,  194.  See 
Chapter  V  passim. 

iambic  tetrameter,  115. 

/  am  His  Highness'  Dog  at  Kew 
(pope),  quoted  355. 

I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death 

(Seeger),  quoted  474-475. 
Ibsen,  Henrik,  371,  372. 
Idea,  277. 
Idylls  of  the  King,  The,  113,  182, 

447. 

If,  448. 
Iliad,    The,    235,    270,    373,    374; 

opening  paragraph  quoted  193. 

II  Penseroso,    72,    204. 
Imagists,  the,  107,  226,  365,  460- 

462. 
Immortal  Newton  (Chesterfield), 

quoted   356. 
I  Never  See  the  Red  Rose  Crown 

the    Year    (Masefield),   quoted 

289. 
In  After  Days  (Dobson),  quoted 

305. 
In     a     Station     of     the     Metro 

(Pound),  quoted  360 
In    a     Wood     (Hardy),    quoted 

420-421. 

industrial  life  in  poetry,  435  ff. 
initial  rime,  82. 
In    Flanders    Fields    (McCrae), 

303,  474,  quoted  304. 
In        Memoriam        (Tennyson),, 


506 


GENERAL  INDEX 


quoted  in  part  108-109,  417- 
418. 

Inscription  by  the  Sea,  An  (Rob- 
inson), quoted  350. 

internal  rime,  108. 

In  the  Sultan's  Garden  (Scol- 
lard),  quoted  312-313. 

Intimations  of  Immortality 
(Wordsworth),  412,  quoted 
228-234. 

Invictus  (Henley),  quoted  91. 

I  Shall  Not  Care  (Teasdale), 
quoted  124. 

Ivanhoe,   252. 

I  Wandered  Lonely  (Words- 
worth), quoted  86. 


Jacobite's  Epitaph,  A  (Macau- 
lay),  quoted  351-352. 

James,   Jesse,   244-246. 

James,  William,  471. 

Jesse  James,  quoted  244-246. 

Jocosa  Lyra  (Dobson),  quoted 
361-362. 

John  Anderson  (Burns),  quoted 
55-56. 

John  Brown's  Body,  quoted  46-47. 

John  Hancock  Otis  (Masters), 
quoted  467. 

•f*Johnson,  Robert  Underwood, 
406. 

JONSON,  BEN,  71,  349;  poems 
quoted:  Hymn  to  Diana  (in 
part),  71;  Song  to  Celia,  37. 

Katharine  Jaffray,  quoted  246-48. 

KEATS,  JOHN,  3,  4,  5,  59,  60,  104, 
106,  129,  160,  181,  226,  252, 
270,  281,  369,  400,  411; 
poems  quoted:  Ode  on  a  Ore- 
dan  Urn,  105-106;  Hyperion 
(in  part),  181;  Sleep  and 
Poetry  (in  part),  198-199;  The 
Eve  of  St.  Aynes  (in  part), 
220;  La  Belle  Dame  sans 
Merci,  257-259 ;  On  First  Look- 
ing into  Chapman's  Homer, 
271 ;  On  the  Grasshopper  and 
Cricket,  282. 

*KEY,      FRANCIS     SCOTT,     poem 


quoted:      The      Star-Spangled 

Banner,   42-43. 

Kilmeny     (Noyes),    quoted    479. 
*KILMER,      JOYCE,      475;      poem 

quoted:  Trees,  422. 
King,  The  (Kipling),  436,  quoted 

449-450. 
KIXGSLEY,  CHARLES,  poem  quoted: 

Young    and    Old,    100-101. 

fKlPLING,      RUDYAHD,      7,     92,      112, 

313,  436,  443,  446,  448-450, 
472-473;  poems  quoted:  The 
Gipsy  Trail,  53-55;  The  White 
Man's  Burden,  92-94;  For  All 
We  Have  and  Are,  118-120; 
Danny  Deevcr,  252-254;  The 
King,  449-450;  Recessional,  472- 
473. 

Kirkland,   Winifred,   174. 

Kiss,   A    (Dobson),   quoted   309. 

Kitchener,  Lord,  448. 

Knight's  Tomb,  The  (Coleridge), 
quoted  166-167. 

Kubla  Khan  (Coleridge),  129, 
226,  227,  364,  quoted  130-132. 

kyrielle,   the,   315-316. 


La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
(Keats),  252,  quoted  257-259. 

Lachrimae  Musarum  (Watson), 
400,  quoted  in  part,  1. 

Lady  of  the  Lake,  The,  147-148, 
152,  411. 

Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,  The 
(Yeats),  quoted  169-170. 

L' Allegro,  21,  72. 

Lamb,  Charles,  364,  391,  432. 

Lamp,  The  (Teasdale),  quoted 
368-369. 

Lancelot,  188,  447. 

Land  of  Heart's  Desire,  The 
(Yeats),  song  quoted  64. 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE,  181,  339, 
361,  392,  411;  poems  quoted: 
To  Robert  Browning,  182;  On 
his  Seventy-fifth  Birthday,  354; 
On  Death,  354 ;  With  Petrarch's 
Sonnets,  354;  Rose  Aylmer, 
394. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


507 


LANG,  ANDREW,  193,  294,  295  ff., 
300,  339,  446;  poems  quoted: 
Ballade  to  Theocritus,  in  Win- 
ter,  295-296;  Ballade  of  the 
Southern  Cross,  296-297. 

*LANIEH,  SIDNEY,  59,  60,  163, 
259,  372;  poem  quoted:  The 
Song  of  the  Chattahoochee, 
164-165. 

Last  Leaf,  The  (Holmes),  quoted 
328-330. 

Lavater,    Louis,    299. 

fLawrence,  D.   H.,  460. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  The 
(Scott),  quoted  in  part  125- 
126. 

LEAR,  EDWARD,  340;  poem  quoted: 
The  Pobble  Who  Has  No  Toes, 
340-342. 

Leaves   of   Grass,   369,   371,   372. 

LEDWIDGE,  FRANCIS,  475;  poem 
quoted  in  part:  Soliloquy,  475- 
476. 

Lee,   Robert   E.,  401. 

Lee,  Sir  Sidney,  285. 

•(•LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD,  poem 
quoted:  The  Eternal  Way,  459- 
460. 

Les   Mteerables,   144. 

Life  is  a  Jest  (Gay),  quoted 
350. 

light  verse,  Chapter  IX  passim, 
317  ff. 

limerick,  the,  345. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  52,  70,  328, 
400-410,  439. 

•{•'LINDSAY,  VACHEL,  211,  380, 
406,  437,  463-464,  473;  poems 
quoted:  Abraham  Lincoln 
Walks  at  Midnight,  409-410; 
On  the  Building  of  Springfield, 
437-439 ;  The  Eagle  that  is  For- 
gotten, 464-465. 

Lines  Printed  under  the  En- 
graved Portrait  of  Milton 
(Dryden),  quoted  197. 

Lines  Written  in  an  Album  at 
Malta  (Byron),  quoted  357- 
358. 

Lisle,   Rouget   de,  23. 


Literature   in    a    Changing    Age, 

446. 
Lochinvar  (Scott),  246  ff.,  quoted 

248-250. 
LOCKER-LAMPSON,  FREDERICK,  321, 

322,    339,    361;    poem    quoted: 

My   Mistress's   Boots,   330-331, 

332. 
*LOINES,  RUSSELL  MILLIARD,  poem 

quoted:    On   a   Magazine   Son- 
net, 348. 

Lomax,  John   A.,  244. 
London,      1802       (Wordsworth), 

quoted   278-279. 
•J"*LONG,    HANIEL,    poem    quoted: 

Dead     Men     Tell    No     Tales, 

126. 

*LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADS- 
WORTH,  7,  12,  13,  71,  252,  259, 
286-287,  317,  365,  368,  374, 
375,  452,  457,  458-459;  poems 
quoted:  Hiawatha  (in  part), 
71 ;  Hymn  to  the  Night,  127- 
128;  Evangeline  (in  part),  162- 
163;  Oft  Have  I  Seen  at  Some 
Cathedral  Door,  287;  O  Star  of 
Morning  and  of  Liberty,  287; 
Wanderer's  Night-songs,  353- 
354. 

Lord  Randal,  quoted  239. 

Lost  Leader,  The  (Browning), 
156,  quoted  157-158. 

Love,  139. 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD,  poem  quoted: 
To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the 
Wars,  98-99. 

f* LOWELL,  AMY,  2,  4,  316,  360, 
381,  445,  447,  454,  460,  463; 
poem  quoted:  Texas,  440-441. 

*LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL,  8,  17, 
259,  339,  358,  359,  457,  459; 
poems  quoted:  For  an  Auto- 
graph, 358;  To  Those  Who 
Died,  358;  Ode  Recited  at  the 
Harvard  Commemoration  (in 
part),  404-405. 

Lowes,  John  L.,  16,  181. 

Lyra  Elegantiarum,  321,  322. 

lyric,  the,  64. 

Lyrical  Ballads,  The,  83,  461. 


508 


GENERAL  INDEX 


Lyrics     and     Epics      (Aldrich), 
quoted   in  part  317. 


MACAUI.AY,  LORD,  444;  poem 
quoted:  A  Jacobite's  Epitaph, 
351-352. 

machinery,  and  poetry,  435-437, 
448-450. 

•f*Mackaye,  Percy,  406,  468. 

*MAI.ONE,  WALTER,  poem  quoted: 
Abraham  Lincoln,  401. 

Manfred,  426. 

Margarita1  Sorori  (Henley), 
quoted  380-381. 

•f*Markham,  Edwin,  406,  468. 

•J*MARKS,  MRS.  LIONEL,  see  Pea- 
body,  Josephine  Preston. 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER,  173,  196; 
poem  quoted:  Doctor  Faustus 
(in  part),  173-174. 

Ma.rm.ion,   248. 

masculine  rime,  81. 

•J-MASEFIELD,  JOHN,  110,  201,  210, 
215-217,  252,  262,  280,  288-290, 
421,  445,  446,  447,  448,  453- 
456,  473,  475,  482;  poems 
quoted:  The  West  Wind,  170- 
171;  The  Widow  in  the  Bye 
Street  (in  part),  217;  The 
Yarn  of  the  "Loch  Achray," 
254-256;  Now  They  are  Gone, 
288-289;  I  Never  See  the  Red 
Rose  Crown  the  Year,  289;  On 
Growing  Old,  290;  A  Conse- 
cration, 455-456. 

M aster,  The  (Robinson),  quoted 
406^08. 

•(•'MASTERS,  EDGAR  LEE,  188,  373, 
380,  381,  405,  445,  463,  465- 
467;  poems  quoted:  Alexander 
Throckmorton,  372;  Come,  Re- 
public, 382-384;  George  Gray, 
466-467;  John  Hancock  Otis, 
467. 

f*Matthews,  Brander,  294,  312, 
321. 

Hand  Muller,  346. 

Maupassant,  Guy  de,  2. 

McCRAE,  JOHN,  303,  468,  474,  475; 


poem     quoted:     In     Flandert 

Fields,  304. 
Melville,  Herman,  453. 
Mending    Wall    (Frost),    quoted 

189-190. 

Meredith,  George,  275,  372,  373. 
Merlin,  188,  447. 
Merlin  and  the  Gleam,  365. 
methods     of     studying     poetry, 

388. 
Midsummer    Night's    Dream,    A 

(Shakespeare),  quoted  in  part 

174-175. 

Millais,  John  Everett,  391. 
•{•'MILLAY,    EDNA    ST.    VINCENT, 

468;  poem  quoted:  Elegy,  398- 

399. 

*MlLLER,        ClNCINNATUS         HEINE 

("JOAQUIN"),  115,  117;  poem 
quoted:  Westward  Ho,  116-117. 

MILTON,  JOHN,  21,  42,  60,  72, 
141,  172,  177-179,  191,  204,  226, 
269,  277-278,  317,  354,  361,  364, 
369,  400,  444,  453,  471;  poems 
quoted:  Comus  (in  part), 
177-178;  Paradise  Lost  (in 
part),  179;  When  I  Consider, 
270;  On  the  Late  Massacre  in 
Piedmont,  278. 

Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Bor- 
der, The,  248. 

mockingbird  in  poetry,  the, 
132. 

Modern  Love,  275. 

Monadnock  through  the  Trees 
(Robinson),  quoted  463. 

monometer,  75,  76. 

•j-*Monroe,   Harriet,   16,  406. 

*Moody,  William  Vaughn,  444. 

MOORE,  THOMAS,  37-38,  336-337, 
481;  poems  quoted:  Believe  Me 
if  All  Those  Endearing  Youna 
Charms,  38 ;  The  Time  I've  Lost 
in  Wooing  (in  part),  324. 

Moral  Equivalent  of  War,  The, 
471. 

MORDAUNT,  MAJOR  THOMAS,  O., 
poem  quoted:  Sound,  Sound 
the  Clarion,  Fill  the  Fife,  471. 

•(•*MORLEY,  CHRISTOPHER,  326,  468; 


GENERAL  INDEX 


509 


poem  quoted:  To  a  Post-Office 

Inkwell,  357. 
MORRIS,    WILLIAM,    52,    110,    217, 

411-412,    446;    poems    quoted: 

An  Apology,  215-216;  A   Gar- 
den   by     the    Sea     (in    part), 

412. 
Mr.    Flood's   Party    (Robinson), 

quoted  211-213. 
Mrs.     Judge     Jenkins     (Harte), 

quoted   346-348. 
music,     relation     of    poetry    to, 

Chapter     II     passim;     verbal 

music,  59-61,  65. 
My    Last    Duchess    (Browning), 

quoted   199-201. 
My   Maryland    (Randall),   48-52, 

quoted  50-52. 
My    Mistress's    Boots     (Locker- 

Lampson),  quoted  330-332. 
mythology,  102,  251-252,  270. 

NAPIER,  ELIOT,  468;  poem  quoted: 

All  Men  are  Free,  304-305. 
nature  in  poetry,   179,   187,   189, 

410-425.       See     also     notes    to 

Chapter  XI. 
Navies     nor     Armies      (Gilder), 

quoted  359. 

negro   songs,  28-29,  238. 
New  England  poets,  the,  7,  374, 

457-459,   4(i3. 
New      World,      The      (Bynner), 

quoted  in  part  381. 
Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  349. 
nightingale  in  poetry,  the,  132. 
Nineteenth      Psalm,      367,      377, 

quoted  in  part  368. 
Niobe    (Noyes),   quoted   102-103. 
No  Longer  Mourn  for  Me  When 

I     Am    Dead     (Shakespeare), 

quoted   273. 
nonameter,    75. 
nonsense   verse,  339-342. 
Now  They  are  Gone  (Masefield), 

quoted   288-289. 
fNoYES,  ALFRED,  65,  82,  302,  421, 

445,   448,   452-453,   478;   poems 

quoted:  Astrid    (in  part),  82; 

Niobe,     102-103;     Unity,     159; 


Seven  Wise  Men,  160-161;  The 
Highwayman,  262-267;  Art  (in 
part),  294;  Kilmeny,  479. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!   (Whit- 
man), quoted  402-403. 
octameter,    75. 
octosyllabic  couplet,  125. 
ode,   the,  226-227. 
Ode      (CyShaughnessy),     quoted 

167-168. 
Ode:  Intimations  of  Immortality 

(Wordsworth),      412,      quoted 

228-234. 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  (Keats), 

quoted   105-106. 

Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Com- 
memoration    (J.     R.    Lowell), 

quoted  in  part  404-405. 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale  (Keats),  4, 

369,  quoted  in  part  59-60. 
Ode     to     Duty      (Wordsworth), 

quoted  96-98. 
Ode  to  Evening  (Collins),  quoted 

365-367. 
Ode  to  the  West  Wind  (Shelley), 

quoted   223-225. 
Odyssey,  the,   183,   235,  271. 
Oft  Have  I  Seen  at  Some  Cathe- 
dral       Door        (Longfellow), 

quoted  287. 
Oh!  Snatch'd  Away  in  Beauty's 

Bloom  (Byron),  quoted  395. 
Old   French   Forms,  see  Chapter 

VIII  passim,  294  ff. 
On  a  Magazine  Sonnet   (Loines), 

quoted  348. 
In     a     Station     of     the     Metro 

(Pound),  quoted   360. 
On   Beau   Nosh's   Picture    (Mrs. 

Brereton),  quoted  356. 
On  Death   (Landor),  quoted  354. 
On    his    Seventy-fifth    Birthday 

(Landor),  quoted  354. 
On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 

Homer  (Keats),  quoted  271. 
On     Growing     Old     (Masefield), 

quoted   290. 
On  Seeing  Weather-beaten  Trees 

(Crapsey),  quoted  194, 


510 


GENERAL  INDEX 


On  the  Building  of  Springfield 
(Lindsay),  quoted  437-439. 

On  the  Countess  Dowager  of 
Pembroke  (Browne),  quoted 
349. 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 
(Keats),  281,  quoted  282. 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Pied- 
mont (Milton),  277,  quoted  288. 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster 
Abbey  (Beaumont),  quoted 
113. 

onomatopoeia,  108,  179,  197-198, 
218,  219. 

t*Oppenheim,  James,  406,  468. 

Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,  The, 
372,  373. 

Origin  of  Species,  The,  417. 

O'SHAUGHNESSY,  ARTHUR  WIL- 
LIAM EDGAR,  poem  quoted:  Ode, 
167-168. 

Ossian,  364. 

O  Star  of  Morning  and  of  Lib- 
erty (Longfellow),  quoted  287. 

O  Talk  Not  to  Me  (Byron), 
quoted  139-140. 

Othello  (Shakespeare),  quoted  in 
part  175-176,  471. 

ottava   rima,  214. 

Ozymandias  (Shelley),  275,  280, 
288,  quoted  281. 

painting,   its   relation   to   poetry, 

30,  107,  413. 
Palabras     Carinosas      (Aldrich), 

quoted  323-324. 
Palgrave,    Francis    Turner,    139, 

140,  242. 

pantoum,   the,  311-313. 
Paradise  Lost  (Milton),  quoted  in 

part    179-180. 
parody,   the,   345-348. 
Patterson,  W.  M.,  386. 
•}-*PEABODY,    JOSEPHINE    PRESTON 

(Mrs.      Lionel      Marks),     468; 

poem    quoted:    "Vanity,    Saith 

the  Preacher,"  332-333. 
Peele  Castle,  413-414. 
pentameter,  75.     See  also  iambic 

pentameter. 


Percy,   Bishop  Thomas,  238. 

Perry,    Bliss,   16,   64. 

Petrarch,  Francis,  269,  292,  354, 
392,  411. 

Phillips,  Stephen,  446. 

Philomela  (Arnold),  quoted  369- 
370. 

*PIERPONT,  JOHN,  poem  quoted: 
The  Ballot,  115. 

*PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE,  poem 
quoted:  A  Health,  338-339. 

Pippa  Passes,   148. 

Pobble  Who  Has  No  Toes,  The 
(Lear),  quoted  340-342. 

*PoE,  EDGAR  ALLAN,  2,  6,  8,  11, 
17,  60,  75,  128,  204,  210,  226, 
364,  389,  426,  457;  poems 
quoted:  To  One  in  Paradise, 
128-129;  The  Sleeper,  389-391; 
Sonnet — To  Science  (in  part), 
416. 

Poet,  The  (Bryant),  quoted  9-10. 

poet  laureate,  the,  110,  156, 
283. 

Poetic  Origins  and  the  Ballad, 
236. 

poetry;  two  kinds  of,  2;  defini- 
tions of,  6  ff. ;  didactic,  7-8; 
how  to  read,  19,  57;  methods 
of  studying,  388. 

"polyphonic  prose,"  386. 

POPE,  ALEXANDER,  12,  75,  192, 
196-198,  300,  339,  392,  470; 
poems  quoted:  Essay  on  Criti- 
cism (in  part),  12,  197-198; 
Iliad  (in  part),  193;  Epitaph 
Intended  for  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton, 349;  /  Am  His  Highness' 
Dog  at  Kew,  355. 

Poplar  Field,  The  (Cowper), 
quoted  140-141. 

popular  ballad,  the,  235  ff. 

f* POUND,  EZRA,  359,  468;  poem 
quoted:  In  a  Station  of  the 
Metro,  360. 

Pound,  Professor  Louise,  236. 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth, 
339,  361. 

Prairies,  The  (Bryant),  quoted 
in  part  186-187. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


511 


Prayer  for  India,   A    (Tagore), 

quoted  469. 
Prayer     of     the     Flowers,     The 

(Dunsany),    quoted    442. 
Prelude    (Gibson),   quoted   456. 
Prelude,       The       (Wordsworth), 

quoted  in  part,  179-180. 
PRIOR,  MATTHEW,  333,  339;  poems 

quoted:  To  a  Child  of  Quality, 

334;     To     his     Soul,     352-353; 

Written    in    a    Lady's    Milton, 

355. 
Private      of      the      Buffs,      The 

(Doyle),  quoted  94-96. 
Prodigals,  The  (Dobson),  quoted 

299. 

Prometheus  Unbound,  141. 
prose,  its  relation  to  poetry,  10, 

193,   363-364,   3T3-374,   386-387, 

445. 

prose  poetry,  364,  373-374. 
Prospice  (Browning),  quoted  146- 

147. 
Psalm,  the   Nineteenth,  367,  377, 

quoted  in  part  368. 
Psalm  of  Life,  A,  7,  12. 
puns,   342. 
Purple     Cow,     The     (Burgess), 

quoted  340. 

Questioning   Lydia    (Untermeyer 
from  Horace),  quoted  327-328. 

'RANDALL,  JAMES  RYDER,  48  ff. ; 

poem  quoted :  My  Maryland,  50- 

52. 
Recessional      (Kipling),     quoted 

472-473. 

refrain,   the,    161,  259. 
Reliques     of     Ancient     English 

Poetry,  238. 
Renaissance,     the     Italian,     199, 

269. 

Requiem  (Stevenson),  quoted  53. 
Requiescat       (Arnold),      quoted 

395-396. 
Reveille    (Housman),   quoted   in 

part   73-74. 
Reynard  the  Fox,  454. 


Rhymes  to  be  Traded  for  Bread, 
464. 

Rhythm  of  Prose,   The,  386. 

•f*Rice,  Cale  Young,  468. 

f*  Ridge,   Lola,  468. 

Right  Royal,  454. 

rime,  kinds  of,  81-82,  108;  eye- 
rime,  58,  98;  functions  of,  190- 
193. 

rime  royal  stanza,  the,  215  ff. 

riming   dictionary,   18. 

Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells  (Tenny- 
son), quoted  108-109. 

Rizpah,  447. 

Robin  Hood,  252. 

•f*RoBixsoN,  EDWIN  ARLINGTON, 
11  (his  definition  of  poetry), 
188,  211,  288,  290,  291,  292,  294, 
380,  405,  421,  444,  445,  447, 
462,  463;  poems  quoted:  Ben 
Jonson  Entertains  a  Man  from 
Stratford  (in  part),  188-189; 
Mr.  Flood's  Party,  211-213; 
Firelight,  290-291;  Souvenir, 
291;  An  Inscription  by  the  Sea, 
350;  The  Master,  406-408;  The 
Dark  Hills,  462-463;  Monad- 
nock  through  the  Trees,  463. 

ROCHESTER,  EARL  OF,  poem 
quoted:  Epitaph  on  Charles  II, 
350. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  481. 

Romance  (Henley),  quoted  121- 
122. 

rondeau,  the,  303  ff. 

Rondeau  (Hunt),  quoted  357. 

Rose  Aylmer  (Landor),  quoted 
394. 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA, 
123,  359;  poem  quoted:  Song, 
123-124. 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL,  104, 
107,  252,  282,  392,  446;  poems 
quoted:  A  Sonnet  is  a  Mo- 
ment's Monument,  268;  The 
Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies  (from 
Villon),  300-301. 

Rossini,  58. 

roundel,  the,  308. 

Rubdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam,  The 


512 


GENERAL  INDEX 


(Fitzgerald),    quoted    in    part 
213,  289. 
Ruskin,  John,  11. 

Salt   Water  Poems  and  Ballads, 

254,  453. 

Samson  Agonistes,  141. 
•(•*SANDBURG,  CARL,  364,  380,  381, 

406,    433,     463,     467-468,    477; 

poems   quoted:   A    Fence,  384- 

385;  Chicago,  433-435;  A.  E.  F., 

480. 
San  Francisco  (Harte),  quoted  in 

part  427. 

sapphic   stanza,   the,   368-369. 
Sappho,  359,  368. 
•fSASsooN,  SIEGFRIED,  475,  477-478; 

poem    quoted:    Song-books    of 

the   War,  478. 
*SAXE,  JOHN  GODFREY,  339;  poem 

quoted:  Woman's  Will,  356. 
scansion,  65  if. 
Schubert,   Franz,  36. 
science,  its  relation  to  poetry,  10- 

11,   416-418,  435. 
•|-*SCOLLARD,    CLINTON,    302,    406; 

poem   quoted:   In   the   Sultan's 

Garden,  312-313. 
SCOTT,  LADY  JOHN,  poem  quoted: 

Annie  Laurie,  34-35. 
SCOTT,     SIR    WALTER,     147,     152, 

246-251,  252,  365,  391,  411,  471; 

poems  quoted:  Hunting  Song, 

72-73;    The    Lay    of    the    Last 

Minstrel     (in    part),    125-126; 

Coronach,  148;  Lochinvar,  248- 

250. 

Scottish  dialect,  the,  32. 
Second  April,  398. 
*SEEGER,    ALAN,    474-475;    poem 

quoted:  /  Have  a  Rendezvous 

with  Death,  474-475. 
•j-Service,  Robert  W.,  448. 
sestina,  the,  313-315. 
Sestina  to  F.  H.  (Gosse),  quoted 

314-315. 
Seven  Wise  Men  (Noyes),  quoted 

160-161. 
SHAKESPEARE,    WILLIAM,    27,    36 

(his  songs),  60,  127,  172,  175- 


177,  196,  215,  269,  272-274,  391, 
470,  471;  poems  quoted:  Hark! 
Hark!  the  Lark,  36-37;  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream  (in 
part),  174-175;  Hamlet  (in 
part),  175;  Othello  (in  part), 
175-176,  471;  Shall  I  Compare 
Thee  to  a  Summer's  Day,  272- 
273;  No  Longer  Mourn  for  Me 
When  I  am  Dead,  273;  To  Me, 
Fair  Friend,  You  Never  Can 
Be  Old,  274. 

Shakespeare  (Arnold),  275,  285, 
quoted  285-286. 

Shall  I  Compare  Thee  to  a  Sum- 
mer's Day?  (Shakespeare), 
quoted  272-273. 

She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden 
Ways  (Wordsworth),  quoted 
393-394. 

Shelley,  Harry  Rowe,  472. 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE,  11  (his 
definition  of  poetry),  60,  141, 

275,  280,  288,  364,  369,  400,  411; 
poems   quoted:    To   Night,    61- 
62;  To  a  Skylark,  132-136;  The 
Cloud,    149-152;     Ode    to    the 
West   Wind,  223-225;  Ozyman- 
dias,   281. 

•(•*SHEPARD,  ODEI.T,,  poem  quoted: 
Certain  American  Poets,  458. 

*Sherman,  Frank  Dempster,  294, 
306,  406. 

She  Walks  in  Beauty  (Byron), 
75,  quoted  70-71. 

short  poems,  348  ff. 

SIDNEY,  SIR   PHILIP,  2,  237,  269, 

276,  349,   363,   364,   400;   poem 
quoted:  Come,  Sleep!  O  Sleep, 
276-277. 

*Sill,  Edward  Rowland,  405,  406. 

Since  There's  No  Help  (Dray- 
ton),  quoted  277. 

Sinclair,   Upton,  20. 

Sir  John  Franklin  (Tennyson), 
quoted  349-350. 

Sir  Patrick  Spens,  240,  252, 
quoted  241-242. 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride  (Whit- 
tier),  quoted  259-262. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


513 


Sleep  and  Poetry  (Keats), 
quoted  in  part  198-199. 

Smith,  C.  Alphonso,   128. 

Sleeper,  The  (Poe),  quoted  389- 
391. 

*SMITH,  REV.  SAMUEL  FBANCIS, 
43,  poem  quoted:  America,  44- 
45. 

Snow-Bound  (Whittier),  396, 
quoted  in  part  125. 

Snow-Storm,  The  (Emerson), 
quoted  187-188. 

Soldier,  The  (Brooke),  quoted 
284-285. 

Solitary  Reaper,  The  (Words- 
worth), quoted  84-85. 

Some  Imagist  Poems,  460. 

song;  denned,  21;  love  songs,  34; 
college  songs,  38-39;  hymns, 
40-41 ;  patriotic  songs,  41  ff. ; 
songs  no  longer  sung,  55  if. 

Song  (Christina  Rossetti), 
quoted  123-124. 

Sony  to  Celia  (Jonson),  quoted 
37. 

Song-books  of  the  War  (Sas- 
soon),  quoted  478. 

Songs  of  Innocence:  Introduc- 
tion (Blake),  quoted  74. 

sonnet,  the,  348,  Chapter  VII 
passim,  268  ff. ;  Italian,  269  ff. ; 
Shakespearean,  272  ff. ;  Spen- 
serian, 274-275;  sonnets  on  the 
sonnet,  268,  292-293. 

Sonnet  i*  a  Moment's  Monu- 
ment, A  (Rossetti),  quoted 
268. 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese, 
282-283. 

Sonnets  Voice,  The  (Watts- 
Dunton),  quoted  293. 

Sound,  Sound  the  Clarion,  Fill 
the  Fife  (Mordaunt),  quoted 
471. 

Southey,  Robert,  369. 

Souvenir  (Robinson),  quoted 
291. 

SPENSER,  EDMUND,  60,  217,  269, 
274,  400,  453;  poems  quoted: 
The  Faerie  Queene  (in  part), 


218-219;  What  Guilt  it  This, 
275. 

Spenserian  sonnet,  the,  274-275. 

Spenserian  stanza,  217    ff. 

Spingarn,  Joel  Elias,  8,  363, 
388. 

Splendor  Falls,  The  (Tennyson), 
quoted  107-108. 

Spoon  River  Anthology  (Mas- 
ters), 373,  382,  quoted  in  part 
372,  465-467. 

stanza,  76,  77,  194. 

Star-Spangled  Banner,  The 
(Key),  42,  67,  quoted  42-43. 

*Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  321, 
323,  339,  444,  457. 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis,  90, 
poem  quoted:  Requiem,  53. 

*Stoddard,   Richard   Henry,  405. 

Study  of  Poetry,  A,  16,  64. 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  173,  269. 

Sweet  and  Low  (Tennyson), 
quoted  63. 

Swift,  Jonathan,  339. 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES, 
75,  77,  104,  110,  141,  400,  401, 
411,  446,  447,  464;  poems 
quoted:  The  Garden  of  Proser- 
pine, 78-80;  A  Forsaken  Gar- 
den, 142-144;  A  Baby's  Feet, 
308;  To  Walt  Whitman  in 
America  (in  part),  375. 

Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot, 
quoted  28-29. 

Symonds,  John  Addington,  60. 

Synge,  John  Millington,  468. 


,      RABINDRANATH,      374, 

469;   poem   quoted:   A    Prayer 

for  India,   469. 
•Taylor,  Bert  Leston,  326. 
•(••TEASDALE,  SABA   (Mrs.   Filsing- 

er),  123,   124,  368,  468;  poems 

quoted:  I  Shall  Not  Care,  124; 

Wisdom,  124;  The  Lamp,  368- 

369. 
Telling     the     Bees      (Whittier), 

quoted  396-398. 
TENNYSON,   ALFRED,   13,   60,   108- 

113,    140,    147,    152,    192,    197, 


514 


GENERAL  INDEX 


252,  283,  364,  365,  372,  392, 
400,  411,  412,  425,  446-447,  452, 
453;  poems  quoted:  Crossing  the 
Bar,  62-63;  Sweet  and  Low, 
63;  The  Splendor  Falls,  107- 
108;  Ring  Out,  Wild  Bells, 
108-109;  To  the  Queen,  110-111; 
To  Virgil,  113-115;  Break, 
Break,  Break,  168-169;  Ulysses, 
183-185;  Sir  John  Franklin, 
349-350;  Flower  in  the  Cran- 
nied Wall,  412;  In  Memoriam 
(in  part),  108-109,  417-418. 

Tennyson  (van  Dyke),  quoted 
112. 

terza  rima,  222  ff. 

tetrameter,    75. 

Texas  (Amy  Lowell),  quoted  440- 
441. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 
339. 

Thanatopsis  (Bryant),  quoted  in 
part  90. 

Theocritus,  295. 

This  Quiet  Dust  (Dickinson), 
quoted  353. 

•Thompson,  Maurice,  400,  401. 

Thomson,  James,  219,  411. 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  375. 

Thorndike,   Ashley    Horace,   446. 

Tiger,  The  (Blake),  quoted  in 
part  72. 

time  element  in  English  verse, 
the,  67. 

Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing,  The 
(Moore),  quoted  in  part  324. 

*TIMHOD,  HENRY;  poem  quoted: 
At  Magnolia  Cemetery,  121- 
122. 

Tinker,  Chauncey  B.,  352. 

Tintern  Abbey  (Wordsworth), 
412,  quoted  in  part  413. 

To  a  Certain  Civilian  (Whitman), 
quoted  376. 

To  a  Child  of  Quality  Five  Years 
Old  (Prior),  quoted  334. 

To  a  Locomotive  in  Winter 
(Whitman),  quoted  436-437. 

To  a  Post-Office  Inkwell  (Mor- 
ley),  quoted  357. 


To  a  Skylark  (Shelley),  22, 
quoted  132-136. 

To  a  Water-fowl  (Bryant), 
quoted  88-89. 

To  Christina  Rossetti  (Watson), 
quoted  359. 

To  his  Soul  (Prior  from  Had- 
rian), quoted  352-353. 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the 
Wars  (Lovelace),  quoted  98-99. 

To  Me,  Fair  Friend,  You  Never 
Can  Be  Old  (Shakespeare), 
quoted  274. 

To  Night  (Shelley),  61,  127, 
quoted  61-62. 

To  Old  Age  (Whitman),  quoted 
359. 

To  One  in  Paradise  (Poe),  quoted 
128-129. 

To  Robert  Browning  (Landor), 
quoted  182. 

To  Rosemounde.  A  Balade 
(Chaucer),  quoted  303. 

To  the  Queen  (Tennyson),  quoted 
110-111. 

To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much 
of  Time  (Herrick),  324,  quot- 
ed 325. 

To  Thomas  Moore  (Byron), 
quoted  337. 

To  Those  Who  Died  (J.  R. 
Lowell),  quoted  358. 

To  Virgil  (Tennyson),  172,  quot- 
ed 113-115. 

To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 
(Swinburne),  quoted  in  part 
375. 

toast,  the,  336-339. 

tone-color,  83.  See  also  onoma- 
topoeia. 

translators,   192-193,  286-287. 

Trees  (Kilmer),  quoted  422. 

Triad   (Crapsey),  quoted  360. 

trimeter,  75. 

triolet,  the,  308-309. 

triple  meters,  the,  69;  see  Chap- 
ter IV  passim,  137  ff. 

trochaic  verse,  68,  72. 

Truth  about  Horace,  The  (Field), 
quoted  326-327. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


515 


Tuft   of   Flowers,   The    (Frost), 

quoted  201-203. 
Twa    Corbies,    The,    239,    quoted 

240. 

Ulysses  (Tennyson),  quoted  183- 

185. 

unity  (Noyes),  quoted  159. 
Unmanifest     Destiny      (Hovey), 

quoted  117-118. 
•J^UXTERJIEYER,   Louis,   294,   306, 

307,      457,     464,      468;      poem 

quoted:       Questioning     Lydia, 

327-328. 
Up    at    a    Villa — Down    in    the 

City    (Browning),  quoted  429- 

432. 
Upon      his      Departure      Hence 

(Herrick),  quoted   76. 

•f*VAX  DYKE,  HEXRY;  poem 
quoted:  Tennyson,  112. 

Vanity  Fair,  144. 

"Vanity,  Saith  the  Preacher" 
(Peabody),  quoted  332-333. 

Vergil,  67,   172,  173,  368. 

vers  de  societe,  306,  318  ff. 

verse-writing,  17   ff. 

Victorian  poets,  the;  2,  13;  con- 
temporary aversion  to,  446- 
447,  450. 

villanelle,  the,  309-311. 

Villanelle   (Henley),  quoted  311. 

VILLON,  FRAX^OIS,  300,  302 ;  poem 
quoted:  The  Ballad  of  Dead 
Ladies,  300-301. 

Vision  of  Judgment,  The 
(Byron),  373,  quoted  in  part 
214-215. 

Vitas  Hinnuleo  (Dobson),  quoted 
307-308. 

Wagner,  Richard,  23. 

WALLER,  EDMUND;  poem  quoted: 
Go,  Lovely  Rose,  87-88. 

Wanderer,  The  (Dobson),  quoted 
306-307. 

Wanderer's  Night-songs  (Long- 
fellow from  Goethe),  quoted 
353-354. 


war  and  poetry,  470  ff. 

War  with  Germany,  poetry  of, 
469  ff. 

Warning,  The  (Crapsey),  quoted 
360. 

•fWATSox,  SIR  WILLIAM,  110,  157, 
285,  400,  445;  poems  quoted: 
Lachrimat  Musarum  (in  part), 
1 ;  Written  in  Mr.  Sidney  Lee's 
Life  of  Shakespeare,  286;  His 
Friends  He  Loved,  355;  To 
Christina  Rossetti,  359;  For 
Metaphors  of  Man,  410;  Eng- 
land, my  Mother  (in  part), 
443. 

Watterson,  Henry,  401. 

•f*  WATTLES,  WILLARD;  poem 
quoted:  Creeds,  356. 

WATTS-DUXTOX,  THEODORE,  11 
(his  definition  of  poetry),  137, 
226-227;  poem  quoted:  The 
Sonnet's  Voice,  293. 

Wells,  Carolyn,  321. 

West  in  poetry,  the,  116-117, 
186-187,  439. 

West  Wind,  The  (Masefield), 
quoted  170-171. 

West  Wind,  Ode  to  the  (Shelley), 
quoted  223-225. 

Westminster   Abbey,   112-113. 

Westward  Ho  (Miller),  115, 
quoted  116-117. 

What  Guile  is  This  (Spenser), 
quoted  275. 

When  I  Consider  (Milton),  270, 
271,  quoted  270. 

•f*WHEELocK,  JOHN  HALL,  422, 
468;  poem  quoted:  Earth,  423- 
425. 

When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd 
Astronomer  (Whitman),  quoted 
377. 

When  I  Saw  You  Last,  Rose 
(Dobson),  quoted  310-311. 

When  Lovely  Woman  Stoops  to 
Folly  (Goldsmith),  quoted  101. 

When  Lovely  Woman  Wants  a 
Favor  (Cary),  quoted  345-346. 

Whistler,  James  McNeil,  5. 

White,  Gleeson,  295. 


516 


GENERAL  INDEX 


White  Man's  Burden,  The  (Kip- 
ling), quoted  92-94. 

Whitefield,  George,   104. 

Whitlock,  Brand,  401. 

•WHITMAN,  WALT,  12,  363,  364, 
365,  369,  370,  371,  372,  374- 
379,  380,  381,  400,  432,  457; 
poems  quoted:  To  Old  Age, 
359 ;  To  a  Certain  Civilian,  376 ; 
When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd 
Astronomer,  377;  As  Toilsome 
I  Wander'd  Virginia's  Woods, 
378;  Darest  Thou  Now,  O  Soul, 
379;  O  Captain!  my  Captain! 
402-403;  To  a  Locomotive  in 
Winter,  436-437. 

*WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF,  5, 
110,  125,  157,  346,  405,  457, 
459;  poems  quoted:  Burns  (in 
part),  5;  Snow-Bound  (Whit- 
tier),  quoted  in  part  125; 
Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,  259-262; 
Telling  the  Bees,  396-398. 

Who  Builds  a  Ship  (Bridges), 
quoted  284. 

Widow  in  the  Bye  Street,  The 
(Masefield),  453,  454,  quoted 
in  part  217. 

Wilde,  Richard  Henry,  87. 

William  Tell,  58. 

Winchilsea,  Lady,  411. 

Wisdom   (Teasdale),  quoted  124. 

With  Petrarch's  Sonnets  (Lan- 
dor),  quoted  354. 

WOLFE,  CHARLES,  144;  poem 
quoted:  The  Burial  of  Sir 
John  Moore,  145-146. 

Woman's  Will  (Saxe),  quoted 
356. 

f*Woodberry,  George  Edward, 
20. 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM,  1,  3,  7, 
11,  42,  83,  85,  87,  132,  144, 
156,  179,  215,  226,  227,  252, 
278-279,  283,  317,  363,  411, 


412-416,  427-428,  435,  461,  481; 
poems  quoted:  The  Solitary 
Reaper,  84-85;  I  Wandered 
Lonely,  86;  Ode  to  Duty,  96- 
98;  The  Prelude  (in  part), 
179-180;  Ode:  Intimations  of 
Immortality,  228-234;  London, 
1802,  278-279;  The  World  Is 
Too  Much  With  Us,  279;  She 
Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden 
Ways,  393-394;  Tintern  Abbey 
(in  part),  413;  Elegiac  Stan- 
zas, 414-416;  Composed  upon 
Westminster  Bridge,  428. 

World  Is  Too  Much  With  Us, 
The  (Wordsworth),  278,  427, 
quoted  279. 

Worm  and  the  Angel,  The  (Dun- 
sany),  quoted  373-374. 

Wren,   Sir  Christopher,   160. 

Wright-Davis,  Mary,  406. 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Milton 
(Prior),  quoted  355. 

Written  in  Mr.  Sidney  Lee's  Life 
of  Shakespeare,  285,  quoted 
286. 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  269. 


Yarn  of  the  "Loch  Achray,"  The 

(Masefield),   252,   quoted.  254- 

256. 
Year's      at      the      Spring,      The 

(Browning),  quoted   149. 
•{•YEATS,  WILLIAM  BUTLER,  57,  60, 

63-64,    188,    252,   446,   450-452; 

poems  quoted:  Song  from  The 

Land    of   Heart's    Desire,    64; 

The    Lake    Isle    of    Innisfree, 

169-170;    When    You    are    Old 

and  Oray,  451-452. 
Young      and      Old      (Kingsley), 

quoted   100-101. 
Young     Lady     of    Niger,     The, 

quoted  345. 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 

PAOB 

A  baby's   feet,  like  sea-shells  pink 308 

A  blend  of  mirth  and  sadness,  smiles  and  tears 401 

A  dainty  thing's  the   Villanelle 311 

A  flying  word  from  here  and  there 406 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies 380 

A   pitcher  of  mignonette 309 

A   pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it   was 219 

A  schism  Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism 198 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument 26& 

A  vanished  house  that  for  an  hour  I  knew 291 

A  weapon  that  comes  down  as  still 115 

Ah!  leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  roar 295 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred   race 394 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 125 

All  men  are  free  and   equal  born 304 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun        179 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 187 

As  he  crawled  from  the  tombs  of  the  fallen 373 

As  I   was  walking  all   alane 240 

As  one,  at  midnight,  wakened  by  the  call 456 

As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone     . 357 

As  to  democracy,  fellow  citizens 467 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods 378 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June 389 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones     .     .     .  278 

Because  you  passed,  and  now  are  not 297 

Before  there  was  in  Egypt  any  sound 463 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 84 

Behold  what  homage  to  his  idol  paid 354 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 38 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold 342 

Be  with  me,  Beauty,  for  the  fire  is  dying 290 

Blake  saw 15 

Break,  break,  break 168 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead 125 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul 90 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood 56 

Come,  fill  the  Cup  and  in  the  fire  of  Spring 213 

517 


518  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 


Come,  Sleep  !  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace     .....  276 

Come!  United  States  of  America  ..........  382 

Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear     .......  176 

Darest  thou  now,  O  Soul     ............  379 

Dark,  dark  lay  the  drifters  against  the  red  West     ....  479 

Dark  hills   at  evening  in   the  west     .........  462 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low     ........  354 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale     .........  181 

Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me     ........  37e. 

Down   Bye   Street,   in   a   little   Shropshire  town     .....  217 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes  ..........  37 

Earth  has   not   anything  to   show  more   fair     ......  428 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind     ........  280 

Fair  Harvard  !  thy  sons  to  thy  j  ubilee  throng     .....  39 

Fair  islands  of  the  silver  fleece     ..........  296 

Farewell,    Romance!    the    Cave-men    said     .......  449 

Fear  death?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat     .......  146 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall     ...........  412 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes     ....  31 

For  afl  we  have   and  are     ............  118 

For  metaphors  of  man  we  search  the  skies     ......  410 

From  the  misty  shores  of  midnight     .........  112 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may     .........  385 

Give  me  of  your  bark,  O  Birch-tree     .........  71 

Go,  lovely   Rose     ...............  87 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old     .........  472 

God  save  our  gracious  King  ............  45 

Good-night!    I  have  to  say  good-night     ........  383 

Grasshopper,  your  fairy  song     ...........  423 

Had  I  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare     .     .     .  429 

Hail    to    thee,    blithe    Spirit     ...........  132 

Hark!  ah,  the  nightingale     ............  369 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings     ......  36 

He  above    the    rest     .............. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain     ...........  1*8 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  'spersed  air     ......  218 

Heart  of  my  heart,  the  world  is  young     ........  159 

Here  is  the  place;  right  over  the  hifl     ........  396 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pidgeon     ............  351 

Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King     ........  350 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet  ...........  78 

His  friends  he  loved.    His  direst  earthly  foes     ......  355 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES  519 


Hog-Butcher  for  the  World 433 

How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me  count  the  ways 283 

How  like  the  sky  she  bends  above  her  child 102 

How  many  humble  hearts  have  dipped 357 

How  pitiful  are  little  folk 356 

I  am  His  Highness'  dog  at  Kew 355 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 149 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 338 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 474 

I  have  learned  to  look  on  nature 413 

I  have  studied  many  times 466 

I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 127 

I  know   a  little   garden-close 412 

I  love  my  little  gowns 332 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 281 

I  never   saw   a    Purple    Cow 340 

I  never  see  the  red  rose  crown  the  year 289 

I  pray  you,  in  your  letters 175 

I  saw  him  once  before 328 

I  see  in  you  the  estuary  that  enlarges 359 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife     ....  354 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 422 

I  take  no  shame  that  still  I  sing  the  Rose 459 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 86 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  pile 414 

I  went  a-riding,  a-riding 440 

I  went  to  turn  the  grass  once  after  one 201 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree 169 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 243 

I  would  be  the  Lyric 317 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 365 

If  I  can  bear  your  love  like  a  lamp  before  me 368 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me 284 

I'm  sitting  alone  by  the  fire 318 

Immortal    Newton    never   spoke 356 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland     .      .      .  142 

In  after  days  when  grasses  high 305 

In  fair  Provence,  the  land  of  lute  and  rose 314 

In  fifty  years,  when  peace  outshines 478 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 304 

In  our  hearts  is  the  Great  One  of  Avon 361 

In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn 214 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 130 

In  youth  my  wings  were  strong  and  tireless 373 

Is  it  as  plainly  in  our  living  shown 194 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool 99 

It  is  portentous,  and  a  thing  of  state 409 


520  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 

PAQB 

It  is  too  late  now  to  retrieve 475 

It  is  very  aggravating 326 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king 183 

It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady 335 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  flowers  on  the  West  Wind     ....  442 
It's  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds'  cries     .     .     .     .170 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 357 

Jesse  James  was  a  lad  that  killed  a-many  a  man     ....  244 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John 55 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'ring  in  the  grave     ....  46 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us 157 

Just  now 360 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 165 

Last   night,   among  his    fellow  roughs 94 

Lead,   kindly   light,    amid    th'    encircling   gloom 41 

Lee,  who  in  niggard  soil  hast  delved,  to  find 286 

Let  not  our  town  be  large — remembering 437 

Let  them  bury  your  big  eyes 398 

Life  is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it 350 

Lo  with  the  ancient 443 

Lords,  knights,  and  'squires,  the  numerous  band 334 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant   dwelling 306 

Lydia,  why  do  you  ruin  by  lavishing 327 

Madame,  ye  ben  of  al  beaute  shryne 303 

Maud  Muller  all  that  summer  day 346 

Maxwelton   braes   are   bonnie 34 

Men,  dying,  make  their  wills;  but  wives 356 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour 278 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord     .      .  48 

Mortality,    behold    and    fear 113 

My  boat   is   on   the  shore 337 

My  country,   'tis    of   thee 44 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 271 

Nature  and  Nature's  laws  lay  hid  in  night 349 

Navies  nor  armies  can  exalt  the  state 359 

No  dust  have  I  to  cover  me 350 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 273 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 145 

Not  here!  the  white  North  has  thy  bones;  and  thou     ....  349 

Not  of  the  princes  and  prelates 455 

Now  the  stone  house  on  the  lake  front  is  finished     ....  384 

Now  they  are  gone  with  all  their  songs  and  sins 288 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES  521 

PAOB 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done       ....  402 

O  star  of  morning  and  of  liberty 287 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story 139 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 257 

O  where  ha'e  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 239 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being     ....  223 

O'er  all  the  hill-tops 353 

Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time 259 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing 215 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 287 

Oh    Rome !  my  country !     City  of  the  soul 426 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light 42 

Oh,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare 403 

Oh !  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom 395 

Oh!  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west 248 

Old  Eben  Flood,  climbing  alone  one  night 211 

One  more  Unfortunate 153 

Others  abide   our  question.     Thou  are   free 285 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham 164 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me 91 

Pale  beech  and  pine  so  blue 420 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 74 

Poor  little,  pretty,  fluttering  thing 352 

Princes ! — and  you,  most  valorous 299 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair 71 

Revered,  beloved — O  you  that  hold 110 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky 108 

Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 113 

Rood  is  my  name.     Once  long  ago 352 

Rose  kissed  me  to-day 309 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frowned 292 

"Scorn  not  the  sonnet,"  though  its  strength  be  sapped     .      .      .  348 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 120 

Send  but  a  song  oversea  for  us 375 

Seven  wise  men  on  an  old  black  settle 160 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 272 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 393 

She  oped  the  portal  of  the  palace 312 

She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel 177 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 70 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 33 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part 277 

Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone     .      .     .  464 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves 122 


522  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 


"So  careful  of  the  type?"  but  no     .........  417 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join    ......  90 

Somebody   called    Walt    Whitman    Dead!     .......  381 

Something  there  is  that  doesn't  love  a  wall     ......  189 

Songstress,  in  all  times  ended  and  begun     .......  359 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife     ........  471 

St.  Agnes'  Eve—  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was     ........  920 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God     ........  96 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses     ............  395 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-chief     ..........  404 

Sunset    and    evening    star     ............  62 

Sweet   and  low,  sweet   and   low     ..........  63 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave     .........  61 

Swing  low,  sweet  chariot     ............  98 

i 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden     .........  92 

"Talk  of  pluck!"   pursued  the   Sailor     ........  121 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind       .........  98 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is     .........  300 

Ten  years  together  without  yet  a  cloud     ........  290 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall     ......  199 

The  apparition  of  these  faces  in  the  crowd     ......  360 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold     ....  138 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day     .......  205 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore  ..........  50 

The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God     ........  368 

The  "Loch  Achray"  was  a  clipper  tall     ........  254 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet     .........  174 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  town     .........  241 

The  Pobble  who  has  no  toes     ...........  340 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead     .........  282 

The  poplars  are  felled;  farewell  to  the  shade     ......  140 

The  seasons  change,  the  winds  they  shift  and  veer     ....  1 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night       ............  418 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls       .........  107 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing     ...........  324 

The  white  moth  to  the  closing  bine     .........  53 

The  wind  blows  out  ~of  the  gates  of  day     .......  64 

The  wind  was  a  torrent  of  darkness   .........  262 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon     .....  279 

The  year's  at  the  spring       ............  149 

Thee  for  my  recitative     .      .           ..........  436 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods     .......  221 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear        ......  182 

There  is  no  frigate  like  a  book     ..........  4 

There  lived  a  lass  in  yonder  dale       .........  246 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream   ....  228 

There  was  a  young  lady  of  Niger     .........  345 


INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES  523 

PAOB 

There  will  be  a  rusty  gun  on  the  wall,  sweetheart     ....  480 

These  are  the  gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 186 

These  be 360 

They  cowered  inert  before  the  study  fire 458 

They  nearly  strike  me  dumb 330 

They  say  that  dead  men  tell  no  tales 126 

This  is  like  the  nave  of  an  unfinished  cathedral 432 

This  is  the  forest  primeval 162 

This  quiet  Dust  was  Gentlemen  and  Ladies 353 

This  picture  placed  these  busts  between 356 

This  shining   moment   is   an   edifice 172 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 105 

Thou  that  from  the  heavens  art 353 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love 128 

Thou  who   wouldst   wear   the   name 9 

Though  old  the  thought  and  oft  exprest 358 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born 197 

Thus  I 76 

Thus  would  I  have  it 385 

Tiger,   tiger,   burning  bright 72 

"Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence 197 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old 274 

To  my  true  king  I  offered  free  from  stain 351 

To  those  who  died  for  her  on  land  and  sea 358 

To  what  new  fates,  my  country 117 

Trochee   trips   from   long  to  short 65 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 53 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 349 

Up,  lad,  up,  'tis  late  for  lying 73 

Upon  a  poet's  page  I  wrote 355 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 72 

Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships     ....  173 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanee  Ribber 23 

We  are  the  music-makers 167 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote 195 

"What  are  the  bugles  blowin'  for?" 252 

What  guile  is  this,  that  those  her  golden  tresses 275 

What  strength !  what  strife !  what  rude  unrest 116 

When  all   the  world  is  young,  lad 100 

When  I  am  dead  and  over  me  bright  April 124 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest 123 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 270 

When  I  have  ceased  to  break  my  wings 124 

When  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer 377 

When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose 310 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 101 


524  INDEX  TO  FIRST  LINES 

PAGI 

When  lovely  woman  wants  a  favor 345 

When  you  are  old  and  gray  and  full  of  sleep 451 

Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Arthur  O'Kellyn? 166 

Where  the  mind  is  without  fear 469 

Whirl  up,  sea — 461 

White-armed  Astrid, — ah,  but  she  was  beautiful 82 

Whither,    midst    falling    dew 88 

Who  builds  a  ship  must  first  lay  down  the  keel 284 

Why  each  is  striving,  from  of  old 92 

With  proud  thanksgiving,  a  mother   for  her  children     .      .      .  476 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 392 

Yon  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach 293 

You  are  a  friend  then,  as  I  make  it  out 188 

You  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy .  307 


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